


my lofty dreams and my alibi's real name

by acid_glue234



Series: you're just another song and dance [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, College, F/F, Friendship, Humor, Mild Language, New Year's Eve, New York City, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bashful, Rachel smiles down at her feet and lets those words wash over her. She's been told a lot of things throughout her short life, both good and bad. She's been called a lot of things too, but somehow, out of everything, Santana Lopez saying she's going to be a fucking star one day has to be the most motivational thing she's ever heard. (Part III of the "you're just another song and dance" series, Rachel's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and i believe in gentle harmony

**Author's Note:**

> follow; http://acid-glue234.tumblr.com/  
> so, i've finally given in. didn't know how to work the site for a long time and honestly didn't need the headache in trying to understand, but it just looked like so much fun, how could i not indulge, yes? so, yeah, i went and got myself a tumblr. follow me if you want. ask questions about my stories, or me, or glee...anything really. i'm super nice, so there's that ;)
> 
> also; "Frozen" shout-out! see if you can find it ;)

Dance class is abuzz on Tuesday with the prospect of who's going to get an invitation to the 52nd Annual Winter Showcase. In the back of the studio, Rachel's talking about it with Angela and Daniel—who are practically worrying themselves into hives—as they warm up for class when Miss July pops up beside them.

There's an odd chill that always seems to follow that woman around. Before Rachel even turns her head, she can feel her dance instructor behind her, so it's not really much of a surprise when she hears, "I wouldn't get my hopes up this year, Schwimmer. No freshman has ever gotten an invitation, so there's no way in hell _you're_ going to get one."

Just then, as if the angels had been listening to this very conversation, in comes Mrs. Carmen Tibideaux with an envelope of invitations. A hush falls over the entire class as they turn their heads toward the door. Without a word, Mrs. Tibideaux picks through her envelope and hands out invite after invite as she strolls around the room.

Unsurprisingly, Daniel and Angela are handed an invite—they _are_ the best dancers in class, after all—and Rachel smiles, happy for them, but that smile immediately slips away when Mrs. Tibideaux turns to her with the tiniest of smirks and places a white and gold 52nd Annual Winter Showcase invitation right into the palms of her trembling hands.

The Dean of Vocal Performance and Dance Interpretation leaves just the way she came; without a word. There's a lengthy pause as everyone in class stare at her in bewilderment, but much to Rachel's gratitude, Daniel finally breaks the silence with a loud, "Whoop! Whoop! Go, Rachel!"

Angela's the first to applaud, and one by one, the rest of the students put their hands together for the first freshman to ever get an invitation to a NYADA Winter Showcase. Blushing from head to toe, all Rachel can manage is a grateful smile as she tries to ignore her icy dance instructor staring daggers at her from across the studio.

\--

She goes home to tell Santana and Kurt about her good news. Kurt is awestruck and fangirls over knowing the first freshmen to ever be invited. "I can _not_ wait to tell Henry," Kurt babbles, running off to find his phone. "He is going to have a stroke when he hears this!"

Santana doesn't seem to know what the big deal is, but she's proud nonetheless. After a short but strong hug, she even offers Rachel the last cherry ice pop in the freezer, which is sweet and all, but Rachel's favorite has always been grape.

"So," she hears from behind her, "This must mean you're pretty hot shit down there at NYADA, huh?"

"Only the hottest," Rachel jests, rolling her eyes when Santana hops over the couch and comes only inches away from landing in her lap.

Smiling cheekily, Santana holds out a grape ice pop. "Well, you better get practicing then if you're gonna win."

"It's not a competition."

"Boo. Where's the fun in that?" Clicking her tongue, Rachel reaches out to take the popsicle stick, but Santana pulls it away with a, "Nuh-uh-uh. What's the magic word?"

Rachel pouts. "Please?"

"Please, what?"

They've been over this before. Way too many times to count. Rachel lets out a huff, and then reluctantly says, "Pretty, pretty please with...Santana on top."

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Santana drawls. "You'll soon learn I'm always best when I'm on top."

Instead of spending an hour and a half analyzing whether Santana's coming onto her or not, Rachel snatches the ice pop out of her hand, and then she sticks out her tongue, because she's super mature.

\--

They watch Family Guy because it's the only thing on. Kurt mentions how offensive the show is, but Santana instantly disagrees, stating, "Sarcastic humor overshadows rude insults in any argument."

Deadpan, Kurt goes, "So, is that what you told yourself all throughout high school?"

Rachel stops mid-lick and pulls her popsicle away from her mouth as her eyes shift sideways to catch Santana's expression. There's about a five second pause, and then Santana says, "Harsh, Lady Hummel. Mad harsh."

Surprisingly, Santana doesn't seem too bothered by the comment. Actually it's more of a surprise to Rachel than anyone else. Since Santana's been here, not one of them has brought up high school, or the bullying, or even those darn slushies. Obviously by his comment, Kurt still holds some animosity from those days. Granted, it _was_ less than a year ago.

"But that's all in the past. We've moved on from all of that silly high school stuff," Rachel says, side-eyeing Kurt hesitantly. "Right, Kurt?"

He bites his lip and looks back to the television. "Yeah. Right."

Santana sighs as she hugs a throw pillow to her chest. "If you're looking for an apology for all the shit I said back at McKinley High, then fine, I'm sorry."

"Why, thank you, Santana. That apology sounded so very genuine and heartfelt," Kurt mutters, obviously not convinced, and Rachel winces from where she silently watches the stilted interaction. "I truly appreciate all of the thought and care you put into those words."

Lolling her head sideways, Santana snorts. "Wow, when did you become so sarcastic, Kurt?"

There's a tense silence. Rachel coughs into her fist, hoping to clear the air, but all that does is further alert everyone to how silent it's really become in the apartment other than Peter Griffin's voice echoing eerily off the walls.

Shifting sideways, Kurt stares at Santana as if he just saw a ghost. After a moment, he grabs the remote to put the television on mute. Now, complete and utter silence falls over them.

Kurt's eyes are dissecting as he looks Santana up and down. Rachel looks on too, just as shocked. She never thought she'd see the day, honestly, but here it is, and here they are, staring impossible straight in the face.

Obviously unsettled, Santana's eyes dart between the two of them. "Okay, what? Do I have shit on my face or something?"

Kurt still looks unable to form comprehensible words, so Rachel speaks up for him and explains, "You called him Kurt. Not Lady Hummel, or The Queen of England, or Porcelain." Slowly, Kurt nods along, so Rachel takes it upon herself to add, "I don't think you've ever once referred to him as Kurt until now."

As Rachel's words sink in, Santana slowly starts to resemble a deer caught in headlights. Rachel would laugh at her expression if she herself didn't look just as startled.

Wide eyes remain wide for another few seconds, but eventually Santana cools her features and shrugs indifferently. "It slipped."

Squinting his eyes, Kurt continues to nod his head as a slow smile creeps across his cheeks. He almost looks like the old Kurt from sophomore year with that boyish smile spreading across his face; before the rejection and the hate crimes and the cold-hearted bullies.

"You know what, Santana," Kurt says, his voice a mere whisper as he continues to stare at Santana as if she's one of the Seven Wonders of the World, which is no doubt making Santana uncomfortable. "You're forgiven. For everything."

Still confused and slightly embarrassed if the blush crawling up her neck has anything to say about it, Santana looks between Kurt and Rachel with narrowed eyes. "But I just told you it _slipped_. I meant to say Pretty Pony or something, but Kurt kind of just came out all on its own."

" _Exactly_ , Santana," he says delightfully, picking up the remote to turn the volume back on. Rachel smiles at Kurt's joy, and stifles a laugh at the incredulous look on Santana's face. Eventually, the voice of Peter Griffin fills the loft once again, and Santana flinches slightly at the grin Kurt shoots her.

Rachel rolls her eyes in amusement as she licks her popsicle. These two nuts are her best friends, and she wouldn't trade them for the world, even if they can be slightly overdramatic at times.

But Rachel assumes that's why they all fit together so seamlessly.

\--

They've only been sharing the same living quarters for three months, but somehow their menstrual cycles link up, and for the second week in December, life is hell. For everyone. Especially Kurt who's seen multiple times throughout the next six to seven days banging his head on any flat surface he can find.

Rachel bitches about Finn's incompetence and tendency to be inconsiderate, in which Santana readily agrees before complaining about Brittany's oblivion to everyone and everything around her.

But it doesn't stop there. Because of Santana's addiction to such salty and greasy foods, she ends up with really bad cramps for the first two days of her cycle. Rachel doesn't want to say she told her so, but she says, "I told you so, Santana," anyway.

(If she doesn't, Santana will never learn. Yet despite her good intentions, her roommate still kicks her out of her section of the loft as she's groaning in agony from the told-you-so cramps.)

Rachel rarely ever gets cramps, but her mood swings are through the roof. The little things that never used to bother her end up pissing her off; like when Santana forgets to close the window at night and the apartment is freezing cold in the mornings, or when Kurt doesn't clean his matted hair from out of the shower drain.

What's worse; winter break is two weeks away, which means not only does finals fall on the same week as her cycle, but she also has to prepare for her Winter Showcase performance.

Rachel focuses on studying for finals first. After all, if she fails her exams, she'll be uninvited from the showcase, which would be one of the most humiliating things to ever happen to her (and that's saying something considering all that happened in high school).

So far, the biggest issue has been trying to find somewhere ideal to study. The library is too stuffy. The loft is too cold. Cobblestones is too crowded. So, she ends up with Angela and Daniel in the back of NYADA's Sinatra Auditorium; one of the most isolated places in all of New York. When a show isn't being put on, at least.

Angela's been studying here since her freshmen year, and it's seemed to have worked for her so far considering she's one of the most prominent students at NYADA, so Daniel and Rachel readily follow her example.

Frustratingly, it's still a little hard to concentrate when Daniel's staring at her half the time. Ever since hearing about her breakup with Finn, he's been even more aggravating than usual. It takes no rocket scientist to figure out who told him about the breakup in the first place.

Rachel peeks up from her textbook and smiles hesitantly when Angela sends her an exaggerated wink. That girl always seems to have something brewing, and Rachel can only guess what she has in store for them this time around.

It's mildly disconcerting how Angela's been trying to set her up with Daniel. He's a really nice guy, but Rachel kind of wants someone who can keep up with her intellectually, understand her literary references, be able to challenge her mind and soul, and for goodness sake, someone who knows _West Side Story_ isn't a western.

\--

Who knew music theory could be so damn hard? When Rachel first signed up for the course, she thought the curriculum was more about the philosophical viewpoint of music and its never-ending greatness.

How naive she was too believe that crap. Music theory is more of a never-ending migraine. It makes no sense. Harmonized major scales. Relative minors. Rhythmic intervals. Music notation. Schenkerian analysis.

And whose bright idea was it to make mathematics the foundation for tones, intervals, and scales? Oh, yeah. The Greeks, 530 and 500 BC. That was in Chapter 5, right?

Monday night, Rachel comes home whining about her inability to understand anything her professor teaches, but Kurt doesn't have the slightest clue on how to help her. He's been taking courses that deal with more stagehandling and directing than actual music, so he volunteers to order them Thai for dinner. Before Rachel can tell him that she already ate, Kurt's gone, the heavy metal door crashing shut behind him.

Sighing, because the world is obviously against her this week, Rachel slumps back on the couch and cracks open her music theory textbook. After staring at it blankly for a good three minutes and not understanding a word, she closes her eyes, promising herself that once she takes a good nap she'll be able to better comprehend all of these crazy signs and symbols.

However, before she can even doze off, a soft _psst_ sounds through her hazy mind. Rachel cranes her neck and looks over the couch to see Santana slipping through her curtain with the Vulcan Salute. Jeez, her roommate is such a nerd.

"Took a Midol, so I'm not a bitch anymore," she says, plopping down on the couch beside Rachel. "Pinky promise."

Rachel stifles a giggle when Santana actually takes her hand and squeezes their pinkies together. There's something special about this moment that she can't quite pinpoint. If Rachel really thought long and hard about it, she would realize it's Santana not only being Santana, but it's Santana being sweet and silly and charming all at once, when back in high school, all she used to show was her cruel, vulgar, and aggressive side.

But Rachel doesn't think about it long and hard, because Santana interrupts her thoughts once again as she takes Rachel's textbook out of her lap and thoughtfully flips through it before revealing, "I started taking violin lessons when I was seven."

"You?" Rachel deadpans, arching an eyebrow. "Played the violin?"

"Don't sound so shocked, Berry," Santana laughs, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. "After getting into a fight in elementary school, my dad signed me up to keep me out of trouble. Apparently I had way too much energy."

Somehow, this information doesn't surprise her at all, but she asks anyway. "You used to get into fights? At _seven_?"

Santana smiles sheepishly. "Not the point of the story, Rach," she says, licking her thumb as she turns a page. "Anyway, I stuck with the lessons until I was thirteen and stopped right before high school. My skinny ass instructor had me learning so much advanced music theory I was shitting diatonic scales and tetrachords long after I quit playing."

Diatonic scales. Tetrachords. Yeah, those sound familiar. Rachel sucks her bottom lip in between her teeth and regards Santana carefully. She knows it's a long shot, but she really has nothing to lose at this point. "Do you still understand what's written in that textbook?"

"Some of it's a little foggy," Santana admits, squinting her eyes in concentration as she scans the pages. "If we start now, I can probably guarantee you'll receive, let's say...a B minus?"

Incredulous, Rachel blinks, and then knocks Santana over with a hug.

\--

Kurt comes back twenty minutes later with two bags of takeout and a six pack of diet Coke. His eyebrows rise at the sight of Rachel and Santana sitting on the floor around their coffee table with a zillion flash cards and a bottle of wine.

"Took you long enough," Santana mutters, digging in as soon as Kurt places the food on the coffee table.

Rachel laughs when Kurt criticizes Santana for her barbaric eating habits as she picks through the vegetables without a fork. Santana rolls her eyes and throws a carrot at him, and Rachel's never loved her roommates more than she does right now.

\--

It's a welcome surprise when Rachel gets a solid A on her music theory final. As soon as she receives the email, she sends out a text to Santana that reads; _who needs a tutor when I've got my very own Niccolo Paganini?_

_Niccolo who?_ Santana texts back, five minutes later.

Rachel rolls her eyes, and then sends; _never mind. I aced my music theory final!!!!_

She's waiting in line with Angela at Big Lenny's Grill when her phone vibrates in her pocket. _OHMYGODDD!!_ the message reads, and Rachel doesn't even realize she's smiling like a complete dork until Angela peers over her shoulder and whispers, "Who's that?"

Startled, Rachel clicks her phone off and drops it into her bag. Angela's still looking at her with one of those knowing smirks, so Rachel rolls her eyes and says, "What?"

Angela raises her hands in defense. "Just wanted to know who had you smiling like that," she teases, nudging Rachel in the side. "Santana, right?"

Suppressing the smile Angela's referring to, Rachel squirms out of her reach. "Last I checked, my name was Rachel."

Throwing her head back, Angela laughs, and Rachel wonders what's so funny as they step up to the counter to order their food.

\--

It's Kurt's idea to throw a _Finals Fucking Over!_ party. Although Rachel's not particularly in the mood to host a social event, Santana seems way too excited by the idea for Rachel to rule it out completely, so she makes a deal with Kurt to promise her that the party won't get too out of hand.

Yet despite this deal, Kurt invites everyone he knows from NYADA, so it's kind of unnecessary to mention a lot of gay men show up. He promised it would just be a small get together, no more than fifteen to twenty people, including Angela, Daniel, and Henry, but many many _many_ more than twenty people end up coming to their _little_ get together.

Rachel's on the couch with Daniel, sipping from a can of beer and discussing the pros and cons of letting Miss July choreograph his dance routine for the showcase, when a flood of people Rachel's never even seen before come barging into the apartment.

Within only thirty seconds, there are party guests everywhere. _Everywhere_. In the kitchen. On the couch. Inside the shower. Under the coffee table. Rachel glances around, frantic for a moment, until she spots Kurt over by the stereo, laughing hysterically at something Henry's telling him.

Okay. He's definitely drunk, and Rachel really doesn't feel like dealing with that right now, so she scopes out the loft for Santana next. Rachel finds her out on the fire escape, obviously not at all concerned with the disarray of their apartment as she schmoozes with some blue haired bohemian girl.

The girl looks slightly familiar, one of those wild artsy types—if her exotic clothing doesn't give it away, her dark blue hair and sleeve of colorful tattoos sure does—though try as she might, Rachel quite can't place her and doesn't really care to.

She's more distracted at watching the stranger and her roommate smoke from the same cigarette, passing the stick back and forth, lips to lips, practically kissing if the rules of swapping saliva still apply.

Locks and locks of dark blue curls fall down the stranger's back and shoulders as she steps up to Santana with a cheeky grin. And that's when Rachel sees it; a gap so wide she's sure the girl can fit the width of the cigarette between her two front teeth.

Rachel watches them for a moment, watches how Santana's eyes trail down the girl's body in appreciation, watches Santana laugh when the girl whispers something into her ear, watches the way Santana's eyes turn dark and heady every time the girl flirtatiously trails her fingertips up and down her bare forearm.

Rachel bristles at the sight. She can't let this woman take advantage of her tipsy friend. Determined, she takes a step in their direction, but a stiff arm easily intercepts Rachel from her original destination. It's Angela, of course, with this drunken smile. Unapologetic, she wraps a hand around Rachel's wrist and yells, "Body shots!"

Daniel appears out of nowhere, eyes wide and glassy as he pulls off his t-shirt to reveal nice, hard abs underneath. Everyone at the party—even the people Rachel's never seen before in her entire life—egg her on as Angela hands her a lime and a salt shaker, and then Daniel lies down on the counter with this ridiculously lazy smirk, and well...bottoms up.

\--

Cotton-mouthed and sick to her stomach, Rachel wakes up with one of the worst hangovers she's had in awhile. She rolls over to look at her alarm clock and wonders what the hell she's even doing awake at eight in the morning after such a ridiculous party like last night.

A loud, jerky blender cuts through her splitting headache, and Rachel receives her answer, sighing as she slides out of bed. There's no way she'll be able to go back to sleep now, so with a stretch and a yawn, Rachel drags herself out of her curtain and into the bathroom.

Whoa. She should have prepared herself before looking into the mirror. The grim reaper stares back at her, and God, her breath _reeks_.

After brushing her teeth, she feels a lot less...hostile. It isn't an ideal state, this fatigued hangover, so she swallows down a painkiller before making her way into the kitchen.

When she sees Kurt making a fruit smoothie, a bubble of envy inflates within her stomach. How can he be so alert and chirpy, so awake and dapper after last night? Rachel's so screwed up she can barely even remember what happened after those horrid body shots last night, yet she couldn't have been more relieved to find her bed Daniel-less when she woke up.

Suppressing a yawn, Rachel puts on a kettle of tea, and then mumbles, "Hi."

Kurt smirks as he glances up from the cutting board. "Good morning, my little party animal."

"Please," Rachel whines pathetically. "Stop yelling."

Rolling his eyes in amusement, Kurt raises his hands in surrender before going back to chopping up his fruits. Dazed, Rachel stares at her full cup of tea and waits for it too cool down while absently wondering about the Boston Tea Party when out of Santana's curtain comes the bohemian girl from last night, unabashed in nothing but one of Santana's old Cheerio shirts and the same pair of baggy jeans she was seen wearing last night.

Kurt and Rachel both stop what they're doing and watch as the girl slowly strolls past. Swaying slightly, she gives them a cool wave, and then slurs, "Yo, you guys throw one helluva party. I mean, _fuck_."

Kurt smiles, pleased with himself, as if it's not extremely weird to talk to a total stranger who spent the night in Santana's bed. "Why, thank you. That's very nice of you to say," he gushes, nudging Rachel in the side as if to say, _d_ _o you hear this?_ But obviously she hears. She's standing only three inches away from him.

Smiling lazily, the bohemian girl runs a hand through her tangled blue locks as her eyes roam the entire loft. "Yeah, so...how do I get outta here?"

Amused, Kurt points her in the right direction, and Rachel watches, struck absolutely silent, as bare feet drunkenly stumble across their hardwood floor. It's just...it's been so long since Santana even entertained the idea of having a one night stand. As far as Rachel knows, at least.

Eyes wide, Rachel continues to stare even after the girl's left, briefly wondering if she was barefoot throughout their entire conversation. Talk about unconventional.

"Looks like Santana's abstinence spree has come to a free-spirited end, huh?" Kurt chuckles, throwing a piece of strawberry into the blender as if he's shooting a basketball.

It misses by a whole foot and lands on the floor.

\--

Santana's dead asleep on her stomach, face smushed into her pillow with her bare back open to the world when Rachel cuts through her curtain. She looks so peaceful, so sweet, yet so recently laid it makes Rachel feel slightly uncomfortable to be in here so soon after.

There are no lingering scents like she expected, and that notion makes her feel a little bit better until she catches sight of a trail of clothing leading right to Santana's bed. Images she rather not think about come flooding into her mind. Nauseas at the very idea of Santana so easily giving herself to some stranger, Rachel picks her way through the messy room and pulls open the shades, Santana groaning throatily as the light of day comes shining in to cast the entire room in bright daylight.

Rolling over onto her back, Santana clutches a bundle of sheets to her chest and eyes Rachel incredulously. "What the...what the hell are you doing?" she mumbles, rubbing at her tired eyes.

Rachel raises her chin. "Get up, Santana."

Still half asleep, Santana slowly blinks her heavy eyelids. "But...but it's Saturday."

On any other occasion, Rachel would find this Santana, all sleepy and dazed, completely adorable, but this isn't any other occasion.

When Santana first moved in with them, Rachel watched as she struggled with her recent heartbreak by doing exactly this; sleeping around with random woman to fill the void. Although she may not be doing it for the same reasons as before, it's still going to cause the same results in the end.

Rachel doesn't know what gives her the right to do this, but she does it anyway. "Get _up_ , Santana," she repeats, her voice stern and shaky at the same time.

Santana furrows her eyebrows the best she can. "How about you get out? This is _my_ room," she slurs, squinting her eyes against the stream of sunlight filtering in through the window. "And close those damn shades while you're at it. My head feels like it's about to blow up."

Petulant, Rachel doesn't move a muscle. "That's what you get."

She's not sure what she's feeling. It hurts, but she doesn't know what it is. Betrayal? No, Santana hasn't done anything behind her back. Not necessarily. Anger? Yeah, there's a bit of anger there.

There also seems to be anger boiling up in Santana. "Excuse me?" she bites, narrowing her eyes in confusion.

"As far as I can tell, you deserve this harsh hangover," Rachel continues, pacing back and forth in front of Santana's bed. Pausing, she looks over to her hungover roommate, who's watching her with a nauseating expression. "Santana, I thought you were done with the numerous women and one night stands."

"Jesus Christ," Santana snorts, letting out a breathy laugh. "It was just one woman and one night, Berry."

It's the way Santana says it; she makes it sound so easy, so uncomplicated, so normal. Maybe it is normal. Maybe Rachel's the one who's overreacting. After all, isn't this why they came to New York in the first place; to discover themselves, experience new things, let loose and finally live? Santana's obviously trying to do just that. Rachel can't really blame her for that, so she makes up something else to blame her for.

"It's not only you who has to deal with the aftermath of your wild behavior, Santana. We don't know these women you bring into our home at all our hours of the night." She lets Santana digest these words as she wraps an arm around her midsection. "What if they're dangerous, or—or _thieves_?"

Santana scoffs, rolling her eyes at the absurdity of Rachel's words. "They don't want your shit, Rachel. All they want is me."

Me, me, me. For someone so self-loathing, Santana sure thinks highly of herself. "Yeah, I'm sure that's all _The Gap_ was after last night," Rachel mutters under her breath before she can stop herself.

As soon as the words leave her lips, she clamps her mouth shut. Santana pauses and slowly lifts an eyebrow. "What did you just call her?"

Embarrassed, Rachel averts her eyes to the ceiling. "Well, you of all people should know I'm not one for name-calling," she amends, settling down on the edge of Santana's mattress, completely forgetting the fact her roommate is buck naked underneath the sheets she has pressed up to her chest. "But you had to have noticed that enormous gap in between her two front teeth."

"The Gap?" Santana repeats, sounding amused as she shifts underneath the dark blue sheets. "Oh my gosh, Rachel, that's fucking hilarious. I didn't know you had it in you."

Rachel winces. "I do _not_ have it in me," she insists, her eyes roaming around the messy room with a frown. "Truthfully, I'm beyond ashamed of myself for picking out a flaw in a woman I don't even know just to make myself feel better. It's despicable."

"No, Rach," Santana stresses, "it's human."

"It's bullying."

"Which is kind of human as well. I must be rubbing off on you." Santana shrugs as she sits up in bed. Flustered, Rachel looks away when the sheets slip away from her roommate's chest.

"Please, I beg of you, fix your sheets and never repeat that phrase to anyone, ever."

When she turns back around, Santana's looking at her with this _look_. Honestly, the shit-eating grin on Santana's face shouldn't be so damn attractive. Rachel's starting to realize that every face Santana makes will always, _always_  make her stomach flutter. It's actually quite exhausting how naturally beautiful her roommate is.

"Santana, I'm sure that you can, how shall I put this..." Rachel knits her eyebrows together and looks to the ceiling as she searches for the right words. "C _o-habit_ with much more, um—with girls who have much better dental insurance."

"Better dental insurance?" Santana snorts, but she doesn't exactly look as amused as she did a few seconds ago. "That's extremely insulting to assume she doesn't have good medical coverage just because she's never gotten her gap fixed, Berry."

Rachel blanches. "Santana, that's not what—"

"And her name is...is...Nicole?" Santana murmurs to herself questioningly, slipping out of bed without so much as a warning. "Nikki?"

Rachel whirls around so fast the whole room spins into a frenzy, thus reminding her of her own hangover. She saw nothing, thankfully, but that doesn't stop a blush from rising to her cheeks as she faces the blue curtain.

"Or did she like being called Cole?" Santana muses distantly, and Rachel tries her best to keep her eyes glued to the far wall as she listens to Santana's staggering footsteps clamper around the hot mess on her floor. "Oh well, whatever her name was, it's not The Gap, which I must admit is a pretty clever nickname."

Folding her hands in her lap, Rachel closes her eyes sheepishly. "While it might have been rather clever, it was also exceptionally rude and highly unnecessary to mention."

"You can turn around now, shorty. I'm decent," Santana chuckles, and Rachel peeks over her shoulder first just in case, but once she sees her roommate in a pair of sweatpants and a McKinley Titan's tank top, Rachel lets herself breathe again. Santana smirks as she lies back on her bed with a sigh. "You know, the gap was actually kind of cute on her."

"Her gap?" Rachel laughs humorlessly, flipping over to lie on her stomach. "You thought her gap was _attractive_?"

"Well, sure, whatever." Santana shrugs and stares up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "She even had a lisp, which weirdly, I kinda dig."

"Kurt!" Rachel shouts, rushing out of Santana's room and into the kitchen. She finds him rifling through the cabinets. Startled, Kurt turns his head and quirks an eyebrow in question. "Please tell Santana that's just absurd."

"What's absurd?"

"She likes gaps."

"Gaps?"

"The ones in between people's teeth."

"Oh," Kurt drawls, nodding along as he moves across the kitchen. "No, I don't think that's absurd at all. It may be shocking to learn, but I've dabbled in this gap phenomenon as well." Rachel squints, because what does that even mean? Kurt shrugs at the look on her face as he slices an apple in half. "Blaine had a gap as a kid. It was absolutely adorable."

"What a coincidence, Lady Lips," Santana announces, appearing at the edge of the kitchen with this smug little grin. "So did Britts. She used to squirt water out of it whenever we'd go to the pool in the sum—"

Arching a brow, Rachel interrupts with, "Brittany had a gap?" Now it's all starting to make sense.

No one answers her. Kurt goes, "So, you and Miss Cole LeBlanc, I see. That hookup ought to generate some backstage chatter at the showcase."

"So, her name _is_ Cole," Santana murmurs thoughtfully. She nibbles on her lower lip. "Cole LeBlanc."

Rachel would usually find it endearing how dazed Santana looks, but this morning she can't stand that look. Santana's no doubt reminiscing about last night, and it's seriously making Rachel feel a bit insecure for whatever reason. Anyway, regardless of her own emotions, her roommate deserves better than one night stands; she deserves true love. Sure, that may sound naive, but Rachel's always loved Disney movies.

She huffs and turns to Kurt as he caps the blender. " _You_ know her?"

"Of course I know her," he replies haughtily, much to Rachel's annoyance. "The gay community at NYADA isn't as vastly substantial as one might presume."

By the comical expression on Santana's face, Rachel knows exactly what her roommate is thinking, but instead of a well-placed insult, Santana asks, "What's her major?"

Kurt shrugs as he takes a bowl of blueberries to the sink. "I don't know, but she works in the costume design department."

"Cole is short for Nicole, right?"

"I'd assume so," he answers.

"LeBlanc. That's what, French?" Santana asks, taking a hearty bite out of a green apple.

"Why, aren't you the curious little thing," Kurt chortles, swiftly dodging out of the way when Santana throws the stem from her apple at him. "Cole must have left one hell of an impression on you last night."

"Ew." Rachel crinkles her nose in distaste. That was not a visual she needed implanted in her brain. 

It's barely been a month since Santana ended that thing with Angela, and here she goes again, looking for something that could possibly hurt her heart in the long run. After ending such a long-term relationship, Rachel knows she's not going to be ready to dive into anything any time soon, but Santana, on the hand, has almost never been single, not even in high school.

"Santana," Rachel starts carefully, resting her forearms on the counter as she leans forward. "I thought you were done, you know...experimenting?"

Spitting out a seed, Santana smirks and says, "She's _gay_. It's not experimenting when she's gay, Rach. It's just some good ol' acrobatic fun."

"I hear _that_ ," Kurt interjects, raising his hand to give Santana a high-five.

Muttering under her breath, Rachel turns on the blender, successfully drowning out the rest of their corruptive conversation.

\--

Daniel is the most obvious leerer, even worse than Santana. Rachel can clearly see him checking out her ass through the mirror as she stretches forward. She purposefully catches his eye, and then smirks when Daniel's face turns scarlet red.

Shaking her head, Rachel leans over the barre. "What do you guys know about a Nicole LeBlanc?" It's been weighing heavily on her mind ever since Saturday morning, and she just can't take it anymore. There's only so much one can learn about a person through Twitter and Facebook.

So far, all she's come across are ambiguous posts about philosophy and scattered quotes of poetry. Rachel wonders if it's warranted to be intimidated by someone so complex in theory, yet completely dull in person. From the awkward conversation she and Kurt had with Cole this past weekend, Rachel can't seem to grasp what is about the girl that attracted Santana to her. It could be the fact that her roommate has a subconscious thing for airheads, but then there's Angela, who is so cognizant and alert there is basically nothing you can get past her.

Cole also has an Instagram, but Rachel strayed away from that link, not really certain if she wanted to torture herself with beautiful images of the woman Santana so recently slept with. She's nosy and dramatic, yes, but she's not a masochist.

"Nicole LeBlanc." Daniel says the name as if he's tasting a sip fine wine. "The smartest pothead I've ever met."

"She smokes pot," Rachel murmurs, and now the lack of interest in Cole's entire being makes total sense.

Angela shrugs as she stretches her leg behind her head. "Yeah, but who _doesn't_ smoke weed in college, you know?" Rachel and Daniel share a sheepish look. "Anyway, to better answer your question, Cole's this musical prodigy who's known for walking around barefoot."

"And she's one hell of a guitarist. The best at NYADA," Daniel adds, bending so far back Rachel's surprised he can still speak clearly. "I'd be shocked if she wasn't performing in the showcase next week."

Angela flicks Daniel in the ear. "Rachel wants to know about her as a _person_ , not a student, Danny. So, Cole," she begins thoughtfully, ignoring the way Daniel grumbles unhappily beside her. "Let me warn you, she's very much out there, one of those cryptic hippie types that love music and books and anything with paint on it."

"That means art," Daniel slips in.

"She was in my French Vocal Lit class freshmen year; the only person in my entire class who understood the crazy shit coming out of my professor's yapper." Angela lolls her head around her shoulders as she meets Rachel's eyes in the mirror. They hold a stare, and then Angela adds, "I'm assuming you're wondering about Cole because she slept with Santana after your party on Friday?"

Curse Angela's perceptive skills. Feeling busted, Rachel jerkily nods her head. She's not going to deny the truth. Besides, what's wrong with looking out for a friend? Santana would more than likely do the same for her, so it shouldn't be that out of the ordinary to do a little bit of investigating in regards to Santana's sexual partners, right?

_Right?_

Angela looks sympathetic—as if she knows something Rachel doesn't—but then again, the dance major seems to always wear that expression. "Thought so," she sighs, leaning over to use Daniel's shoulder for balance as she stretches out her calf muscles. "I saw them shotgunning out on the porch. It was getting pretty hot and sensual out there, if you know what I mean."

Rachel wishes she didn't know. She _really_ wishes she didn't, but the fact is she knows all too well from the many times Santana would sneak woman after woman into her section of the loft right after her breakup with Brittany.

Feeling naive and a little bit immature, Rachel outwardly wonders, "They were...they were really smoking _weed_ out on the fire escape?"

Looking away from the mirror, Rachel lifts her arms and flexes her triceps with a sigh. She could've sworn it was a cigarette, not a blunt, but it's not like she has a lot of experience when deciphering the differences between these kinds of things anyway.

"Well, it sure wasn't a Twizzler," Daniel chuckles as he reaches down to touch his toes. Rolling her eyes, Angela smacks him in the back of the neck for his lack of sensitivity, and then focuses those sympathetic eyes back on Rachel.

Goodness, Rachel hates that look.

\--

It comes as an icy cold splash in the face when Kurt breaks the news that Burt is making him come home to Lima for winter break since he stayed in New York for Thanksgiving, therefore aiding him in missing her very first NYADA performance.

Burt's always been pretty anal about family and the holidays, so it shouldn't come as much of a surprise, but the news is blindsiding all the same.

Over the last couple of weeks, Rachel's done a fairly good job of forgetting about everything Lima related, especially Finn Hudson. After Thanksgiving, her ex had tried calling at least twenty times and texting her no less than fifty times or so, offering up nothing but _i miss u_ and _answer ur phone_. Finally, about a few weeks ago it all randomly stopped.

Rachel had woken up one morning, and to her relief there were no new messages in her inbox from Finn. It was like lifting an anvil off of her chest to finally be free of him. She doesn't know what finally made Finn stop contacting her so suddenly, but by the smirk on Kurt's lips, Rachel thinks she may know, so she can't really be _too_ mad at him.

Over the next few days, Kurt probably apologizes to Rachel over a hundred times for not being able to make the showcase, and Rachel tries her best to understand. But the thing is, Kurt's barely even been around since they moved to New York.

As soon as school had started, he became involved with the production department, the Adam's Apples, and his boyfriend Henry, abruptly leaving Rachel behind to navigate New York City all on her own.

If it wasn't for Santana popping in on them, Rachel doesn't know what she would have done. What started out as an impulsive decision to let Santana move in, ultimately became one of the best decisions they've ever made. It was a rocky road in the beginning, but slowly but surely Santana's become one of the closest friends Rachel's ever had.

It's weird to even think about that sometimes, considering their more than tumultuous past, but Santana's been there for almost everything so far; for when Miss July was a bitch, for when Finn broke up with her, and simply for when she needed someone to watch Grey's Anatomy with her. Considering what it could've been like for the three of them living together in this open loft, things have worked out pretty damn well.

She's never been one to hold grudges, but she does pout the entire time Kurt packs up his suitcases, watching dolefully as he folds up his sweaters and tucks them into his bags. Despite her hurt feelings, Rachel can't deny she's going to miss her best friend over the holidays, so she gives him the longest hug in history right before he walks out the door. Since Henry's taking Kurt to the airport and Santana's out with Cole, Rachel ends up all alone once that door closes behind him, which just makes their empty loft feel even emptier.

\--

Rachel's still kind of mad at Kurt for a few days after he's left for Lima, but at least Santana remains a loyal friend by trying to cheer her up. After walking home from Cobblestones together, Santana takes it upon herself to find the perfect song for Rachel to sing at the showcase.

Booting up her Mac, Santana curls up on the couch beside Rachel and googles _ballads that make grown men cry_ , but nothing worth the 52nd Annual Winter Showcase pops up on her search. Laying her head on Santana's shoulder, Rachel scans the browser as her roommate slowly scrolls down the page.

Throughout the next hour, Santana suggests a multitude of songs from 'I Have Nothing' by Whitney Houston to 'Everybody Hurts' by REM, yet none of them are exactly what Rachel's looking for.

"How about 'Someone Like You' by Adele?"

"Too overdone."

"'Sadie, Sadie' from Funny Girl?"

"Too predictable."

"Blink-182's 'Adam's Song'?"

"Too suicidal."

"What about 'I Want It That Way' by the Backstreet Boys?"

"You're joking," Rachel deadpans.

"I can't win with you," Santana sighs, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You _said_ you wanted a ballad."

Soon after that, an argument arises between the two of them. Rachel supposes it's bound to happen with two such strong personalities trying to agree over millions and millions of song choices.

At least three more hours are spent searching for the perfect song. Santana looks beyond exhausted, eyes slowly closing as she drifts off to sleep, and Rachel's not much better, hanging half off the side of the couch and practically snoring when she suddenly sits up, jolting Santana out of her stupor to say, "I think I just had an epiphany."

\--

She's not a masochist. She's not. She tries to mind her own business, keep her mind focused on the rest of her finals and her voice focused on rehearsing her song for the showcase.

Lying awake in the dead of night and wondering about Santana and Cole and the unnamed _thing_ they have is a complete waste of time and energy, so Rachel doesn't do that. She keeps her mind on the prize, which is the Winter Showcase, not Santana Lopez.

Well, she tries, anyway, but that's just not good enough. She's not sure what it is, exactly, but every time she sees Cole sneaking out of Santana's room in the middle of the night or early morning, something unsettling twists in her chest. She does her best to ignore it, but the more she conceals it, the more she feels it.

After another week of the obvious sneaking around, Rachel begins to wonder if they're becoming more than just friends. She doesn't know why it even matters, but it does. As far as Rachel knows, Santana's never slept with one of her one night stands more than once. That's why it's called a _one_ night stand, after all, and the reasoning behind this actually has Rachel researching the definition, and the Oxford Dictionary clearly states that a one night stand is _sexual activity with another person intended for one night only_.

Emphasis on the _one_.

Carrying a basket of laundry across the living area, Rachel pauses behind the couch when she sees Santana lying sideways as she reads a book. "I didn't know you wore reading glasses," Rachel muses teasingly as she rounds the couch and sets her laundry basket on the coffee table.

Distracted, Santana peeks up from her novel for a moment before looking back down. "That's because I only wear them when I read," she chuckles, quirking an eyebrow as if to say _c'mon, Rach, catch up._ "Which I haven't really done much of lately."

This has Cole LeBlanc written all over it. Curious, Rachel lifts Santana's legs and sits down on the other side of the couch. "What are you reading?" she wonders, absentmindedly drumming her fingers against her roommate's sock clad feet.

Santana pushes her glasses up higher on her nose. "This book Cole lent me. _The Truth in Our Lies._ Something about Aristotle and metaphysics and how we are all wise if we accept the fact that we know nothing. It's a fucking mindfuck."

It's not unlike what Rachel thought. Ever since Cole's been in the picture, taking her roommate to provocative museums and weird hole-in-the-wall restaurants, Santana's been sampling a lot of new things lately, even exotic vegetarian dishes. It's kind of unfair how Rachel's spent the last four months trying to enlighten Santana on her wonderful organic lifestyle, yet it only took Cole a few weeks to accomplish such a feat.

Rachel carefully circles the small freckle on Santana's ankle with her finger. "Are you and Cole getting serious?"

"What, you mean like," she scrunches up her nose, " _dating_?"

Santana doesn't exactly sound all too enthused with the idea. Her reaction has Rachel twisting her mouth to the side in thought as she breathes out a sigh. "Yeah. Dating."

Santana puts her book down, holds Rachel's stare with a blank expression, and then laughs so hard she has to take her reading glasses off. It makes the knot in Rachel's stomach settle a little, but not completely. It helps some that Santana seems completely turned off by the idea of dating _anyone_ at the moment, but a small of part of Rachel still feels unnerved.

"Like I said before, Rach; Cole and I are just having fun," she insists, wiggling her toes through her bright pink socks. With a contemplative look, Santana leans her head back and gazes up at the ceiling. "We're...friends with benefits. Lots and _lots_ of benefits."

Without warning, the knot in Rachel's stomach grows twice as large.

\--

Being the first and only freshmen in the Winter Showcase, Rachel's listed to sing last. Great. Awesome. Usually this kind of news would thrill her. What's better than ending a show with a mind-blowing performance that every person in the audience will never forget, right?

Not right.

Not only does she have to wait at least two hours to go on, stressing over staying vocally hydrated and mentally cognizant, but she also has to worry about ending the Winter Showcase with a bang. She is the first freshmen to ever do this. She cannot disappoint. She cannot be mediocre. She has to be phenomenal.

Backstage, right before Angela and Daniel are to go on and perform their contemporary dance, Daniel complains of having to pee, but he's already dressed in the skinniest tights Rachel's ever seen on a man, so Angela bitches him out and tells him to hold it in.

Those two make quite the comical duo, and Rachel laughs at the interaction before telling them to break a leg.

And break a leg, they do.

Their contemporary dance, choreographed by themselves and _not_ Miss July, is one of the most heartbreaking performances of the night. Each movement is made as if they can feel it right in the gut. Rachel's own stomach turns at the sight of them throwing themselves to the ground and dancing around each other so gracefully it bring tears to her eyes.

Somehow, Rachel's been regarded among such talented individuals. She almost can't believe it, especially when Cole goes on stage to perform an original classical guitar composition.

She's amazing, _a-maz-ing_.

That one word practically sums up the entire performance. The music is so hypnotizing Rachel finds herself staring wide eyed for a good ten seconds as Cole silences the entire auditorium with her acoustic guitar, nimble fingers moving across the strings smoothly and skillfully.

She's _amazing_ , and Rachel starts to hyperventilate.

Sure, she's been performing before she could even walk. She's been singing ballads from Funny Girl before she could even tie her shoes. She has perfect pitch, and the only time she's ever hit a wrong note was that one time freshmen year when she got laryngitis.

She was made for this moment, made for this performance. So, why is she suddenly shaking with nerves? Of course she's been nervous before a performance. She wouldn't be human if not. But this is the first time she's actually been afraid to step out on stage.

Rachel's not only singing for an audience of ungrateful Ohio natives. Tonight, she's performing for the most elite people in the biz; Broadway scouts, music producers, off-Broadway casting directors, the Dean of Vocal Performance and Dance Interpretation.

Not only that, but there's a multitude of Broadway legends in the audience who get invited to attend this event every year. This isn't just any old performance. This is the opportunity she's been waiting for. This could make or break her career. This is it.

\--

She's pacing up and down the back hallway, counting her inhalations and listening closely to the echo of her footsteps when an extra pair of heels start to click and clack in her direction.

Pausing in the middle of the hallway, Rachel glances up and asks, "What are you doing out here?"

"What d'you mean, _what am I doing here_?" Santana raises an eyebrow when Rachel continues to pace nervously. "Angela said you wanted me, that you were freaking out or something."

Rachel doesn't exactly remember saying any of that, but it's possible she could have considering how on edge she's been for the last half hour. "I—I'm just nervous," she stammers, waving Santana off.

"Rachel Barbra Berry, nervous?" Santana snorts, rolling her eyes as if that's the dumbest thing she's ever heard. "You'll be fine and kill the song like you always do."

She knows Santana's confidence in her should help calm her nerves, but Rachel kind of hates how nonchalant her roommate sounds—how easy she makes _all_ of this sound—as if going up on stage in front of over two hundred people is like singing a fun little karaoke song.

Wrapping her arms around her midsection, Rachel leans up against the wall and hunches over. "This isn't glee club, Santana. This isn't Regionals or even Nationals. This is Nationals times five million and two, okay? If I screw up, my career is over. I am the first freshman to ever get an invite to the Winter Showcase. My evil dance instructor is out there just waiting for me to hit a sour note, and dear God, Mrs. Tibideaux is sitting right in the front row!"

Tears start to prickle at the corner of her eyes when Santana gathers Rachel up in her arms and hushes her with a soft whisper. They stand there in the middle of the dark hallway, just breathing and holding each other as Rachel trembles in Santana's strong embrace.

"Alright, calm down, Rach. It'll be okay," Santana whispers into her hair, rocking her back and forth. "Look, I have absolutely no idea what you're singing, but you've been humming it for days now, so I know you're ready. You're _always_ ready, Rachel."

When she breathes out a sigh and tries to pull away, Santana just pulls her back into the hug. Rachel doesn't know whether to swoon or be annoyed as she sighs against Santana's bare shoulder.

"Back in high school, the only time I was able to stand your voice was when you were singing," Santana continues softly, and Rachel readily chooses annoyance, until her roommate adds, "I've never told anybody this, and I swear if you repeat what I say I'll deny it, but you're...you're kind of my inspiration, alright?"

Pulling back slightly, Santana rolls her eyes as she swipes a thumb across Rachel's cheek. Rachel tried her best to keep the tears at bay, but her eyes end up watering all over again at the crooked smile on Santana's lips. They've become so close over the last few months, shared so much with each other, and helped each other through the good and the bad. It's been a hectic four months full of ups and downs, but Rachel hopes Santana knows just how grateful she is to have her as a friend.

Junior year, if someone were to tell Rachel that Santana Lopez would be giving her this pep talk instead of Kurt, she probably would have laughed so hard she would've cracked a rib.

Brushing aside an unruly strand of hair, Santana gives Rachel a lopsided smile and shakes her head. "Sure, Kurt made it into NYADA too, but you're going to...to... _fuck me sideways, I can't believe I'm about to say this_ ," she mutters under her breath with the cutest of blushes. "Rachel, you're annoying as hell, but you're gonna be a fucking star one day."

Rachel reaches out for Santana's hand, and Santana easily takes it. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Of course I'm only saying it to make you feel better," Santana mumbles shyly, interlacing their fingers between them. "Doesn't mean it's not true."

Bashful, Rachel smiles down at her feet and lets those words wash over her. She's been told a lot of things throughout her short life, both good and bad. She's been called a lot of things too, but somehow, out of everything, Santana Lopez saying she's going to be a fucking star one day has to be the most motivational thing she's ever heard.

For awhile they stand in silence, Santana twisting their fingers together in contemplation as she slowly swings their arms back and forth. The gesture is calming, hypnotic almost, and it instantly settles her nerves.

All that can be heard is the distant sound of a violin, and Rachel closes her eyes, imagines Santana playing at a recital as a little girl. She doesn't know what she's feeling, exactly, but it can't be a bad feeling if it's making her feel this good inside.

Clearing her throat, Santana tries to play off her emotions as allergies with a series of fake coughs. "Anyway, yeah, break a leg, Berry," she whispers, squeezing Rachel's hand one more time before letting go. "But make sure it's healed by January or your nutcase of a dance teacher will crucify you."

Smiling, Rachel nods steadily and reluctantly lets go of Santana's hand to wipe at her cheeks. "It'll heal."

"Promise me?" Santana raises an eyebrow as she takes a few steps backwards down the hallway.

Again, Rachel nods with a smile. "Promise."

\--

It's time. Her name is announced, the crowd applauses, and Rachel bows her head nervously as she swiftly moves across the stage until she's standing right in the center. It feels more like the center of the world than anything else. The bright spotlight hits her like the blazing sun, and Rachel grins her show smile as she grips the mic in her sweaty palms.

Okay. Here she goes. It's her moment to give it all she's got and not only make her friends and fathers proud, but make _herself_ proud. From where she's standing, Rachel can't see a living soul, but she imagines Santana in the audience and all of her anxiety washes away. In her mind, Henry is sitting beside her roommate, and that thought helps settle her racing heart even more.

She can't see them, but knowing they're here, right here where she needs them, is all she needs to get through this performance. The music starts up and everything else melts away. She closes her eyes, breathes in through her nose, and stops thinking completely.

There's a place Rachel goes whenever she sings. Sometimes she focuses on a place, memory, event, a person. For the last three years, the person she'd always see when closing her eyes was her high school sweetheart.

But this time around, when Rachel closes her eyes, she doesn't see Finn Hudson.

She sees dark hair, tanned skin, full lips, mesmerizing eyes, and then—then it's her cue. As Rachel opens her eyes, she gazes out into the audience. One more breath, one more inhalation, and Rachel opens her mouth to sing one of her father's favorite ballads.

He used to sing it to her daddy when she was younger. Although they couldn't make it, Rachel feels them with her as she sings out and does exactly what Santana told her to do.

She kills it.

\--

Resounding applause washes over her and it feels like heaven. A standing ovation was the last thing Rachel expected tonight, but she's definitely not going to complain. She's almost expecting roses to be thrown on stage for how long the applause lasts, and Rachel is truly humbled. Thankfully, she keeps the tears at bay this time around and manages a small smile as she makes her way off stage left.

Other performers, who had crowded around to watch her sing, give her their own version of applause with wolf whistles and snapping fingers. For the longest time, Rachel felt as if she didn't belong in this school, especially when Miss July would single her out in class and point out everything that was wrong with her. But in this moment, Rachel knows that these are her people, and she can finally accept that this is her school.

After the show, Carmen Tibideaux personally congratulates each and every one of the performers, and then Rachel quickly heads into the girls dressing room along with Angela and Cole.

As soon as she's pushed through the door, Rachel's met with a chaotic whirlwind of girls changing out of their costumes and into their street clothes. Rachel barely has a chance to breathe before everyone's being ushered back out and into the lobby where friends and family wait patiently with proud smiles and bouquets of flowers.

Santana and Henry greet them with wide smiles and strong hugs; Rachel's oddly pleased when Santana gives her a bundle of roses but has nothing for Cole. It may seem petty, but at least she knows she hasn't been replaced or overlooked.

With a wry grin, Santana shakes her head. "So, Streisand is too predictable, but Celine Dion isn't?"

Smiling, Rachel rolls her eyes and reaches out for Santana, but Angela gets in the way when she pops up between them and wraps an arm around Rachel's shoulders.

" _Interesting_ song choice, Rach," she remarks, arching an eyebrow. "Singing to anyone in particular tonight?"

"Actually, yes," Rachel drawls, pleased someone asked. "I dedicated it to my dad. It's his favorite Celine Dion song."

Angela hums, seemingly unconvinced. "Anyone _else_ you may have been singing to tonight?" she asks, elbowing Rachel in the ribs. "The lyrics to that song are pretty damn intense."

Rachel doesn't really know what Angela wants her to say. It's obvious she's being coerced into naming someone in particular, but Daniel's not even around at the moment, the only person nearby being Santana.

Speaking of, Santana looks between them, seemingly lost. "Well, I'm gonna congratulate Cole," she tells them, and Rachel nods as Santana steps away with a wink. "Be right back."

As soon as Santana disappears behind a crowd of people, Angela tugs on Rachel's hand and brings her close. "Okay, here's the plan," she whispers, darting her eyes around the lobby. "If we're gonna make Santana jealous, you're going to have to stop being so oblivious and actually play along."

"W-what?" Rachel stammers, side-eyeing Angela before casting a longing glance over to where Santana is laughing with Henry and Cole about something. "I thought you and Santana were over."

"We are."

"Then why in the world would we want to make her jealous?"

Angela makes the sympathetic face. "Oh, sweetie, it's kind of obvious you're crushing on your roommate, but hey, I don't blame you," she says, resting a comforting hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Santana is so _totally_ crush worthy. I mean, look at her. She's just...mmhm."

Rachel gives her a disbelieving look. "Angela, despite what you may think, I do notharbor any deep-rooted feelings for Santana," she laughs, knitting her eyebrows together. "We're friends. Nothing more."

Angela looks at her like she doesn't believe her. She's been looking at Rachel like that since the beginning of December, and it's really starting to grate on her nerves. Rachel knows what she's feeling, and it's a little insulting to be told that she's crushing on someone that she's never even considered in that way before.

But Angela seemingly doesn't think so. "Daniel!" she shouts, and within only three seconds, Daniel appears at Angela's side. It's something of an inside joke in their dance class that whenever Angela calls, Daniel comes running. "Rachel's cold," the blonde tells him with a smirk. "Can she borrow your coat?"

"Yeah, sure, of course." He takes his coat off so fast Rachel wonders if it's a competitive sport.

"That's quite alright, Daniel." Rachel sends Angela a look as she takes a step away from him. "It's actually a fairly warm night despite this time of year."

"Oh, no," Daniel waves her off with this crooked smile. "I insist."

He's this close to smothering her with his coat when she hears Santana's voice from behind her. "Yo, Danny Boy."

Turning around, Rachel quirks an eyebrow at the sight of Santana taking off her own coat as she approaches. Rachel flushes in embarrassment. It actually is kind of warm outside. She doesn't need a coat despite everyone's insistence.

Stepping up to Daniel, Santana pushes his hands away and says, "Don't you dare put that ugly ass parka on my home girl. Here, Rach..." With a smirk, Santana drapes her coat over Rachel's shoulders. "I told you to bring your jacket. Maybe next time you'll listen to _me_ for once," Santana whispers jokingly as she wraps an arm around Rachel's waist.

Together, they walk off towards where Henry and Cole are standing. Daniel follows like a sad puppy, and when Rachel turns to look over her shoulder, Angela gives her an exaggerated wink before trailing behind.

This is going to be a _long_ night.

\--

When they all decide to go out to eat instead of clubbing, Cole takes it upon herself to pick the place; some beatnik restaurant called Flower Child, where they all have to sit on the floor and eat with their hands.

Rachel's not exactly thrilled to have to sit on the floor in a dress, but she goes along with it anyway because even Santana looks excited at the idea of eating with only her hands (which really isn't too out of the ordinary).

Their waiter's name is Doogie, and Rachel wonders if she's the only one who notices he looks higher than a kite. His eyes are all droopy, and his speech is slow and slurred, but no one but Rachel seems all that concerned.

Santana and Henry are too busy arguing over a 2 for 1 special on the menu, Cole looks as if she's in her own little world, Angela keeps sending Rachel these creepy winks from across the table—which she readily ignores, because _why_?—and Daniel's picking at his nails as if he's digging for buried treasure.

After four months of living in New York, these are her friends. Rachel doesn't know whether to feel grateful or stupefied. They're all so different in their own right and probably shouldn't even be friends, which kind of reminds Rachel of her old glee club.

You have the gay columnist (Henry) engaged in a friendly debate with the straight dancer (Daniel) over college basketball. Then, you've got the careless bohemian (Cole) talking to the self-proclaimed attention whore (Angela) about how she's visiting her relatives in France over winter break. And lastly you've got the take-no-mess lesbian (Santana) flicking balled-up pieces of her napkin across the table at the talkative diva (Rachel) who throws them right back after they've landed in her hair.

This shouldn't be happening, and none of them should be getting along so well, but even Rachel finds herself in an intriguing discussion with Cole—she's really trying not to like the girl, but the fact is that Cole is so chill and easy to talk to, how could she not indulge?—about how yoga, feng shui, and tai chi are three of the most successful ways to remain stress-free.

It's no wonder Cole is so relaxed and unaffected by everything and everyone around her. She's a vegetarian pacifist who smokes weed and participates in open relationships. If Rachel led that type of lifestyle, she doesn't think she'd ever be stressed again.

Since he's the only person at their table who's over twenty-one, Henry orders a bottle of champagne to celebrate their accomplishments. Angela raises her glass to secret crushes with an obvious look focused in Rachel's direction. Thankfully, no one seems to notice. Cole proposes a toast to hot sex, in which Daniel readily agrees, after elbowing Rachel in the side. Henry pats her on the shoulder comfortingly as he shyly raises his glass and says, "To young love."

Santana busts his chops over that one for a good two minutes, until Angela tells her to shut up and make a toast. Santana smirks and says, "To friends weirder than the ones I had in high school." As Rachel looks around the table, even she has to admit it's kind of true.

After clinking their glasses together in a crowded frenzy, Rachel manages to catch Santana's eye from across the table. _To escaping Lima_ , Rachel mouths, smiling from ear to ear. Arching an eyebrow, Santana gracefully lifts her flute and mouths, _Cheers_.

\--

Once their food is served, the chatter at the table comes to a hush as everyone digs in. The food looks very much unappetizing, but even Rachel has to admit she's impressed with her seaweed salad and avocado sushi.

As she's chewing through her fourth bite, she catches Angela's eyes from across the table. Her eyebrows are raised suggestively, which could only mean trouble is on the horizon.

Eyes suddenly wide, Angela quickly swallows her food. "Hey, Rach, you're not choking, are you?" Her words are slow and deliberate, lips mouthing out each syllable as she over-annunciates the question.

There's no food even in Rachel's mouth when the question is asked, leaving her in a strange predicament as everyone at the table zones in on her. Santana glances up, mid-chew, mouth full of sweet and sour chicken; beside her, Henry turns bright red in the face, Daniel spits out a mouthful of water, and Cole still looks as if she's in another world.

Obviously Rachel's not _really_ choking, but Angela's gesturing for to do something, _anything_ , so she lets out a few hesitant coughs, still unsure of what Angela has up her sleeve.

"Daniel's certified in both CPR and the Heimlich Maneuver. Right, Danny?" Angela nudges him in the side, willing him to take action as Rachel starts coughing even harder. She is an actress, after all.

Eyes narrowed, Cole spins her fork around like a drumstick and calmly asks, "How would one even go about receiving a Heimlich Maneuver certification?"

"That's beside the point," Angela screeches, eyes wide with faux urgency. "Danny, do something!"

Again, she gives Rachel a wink as Daniel slurps up a noodle and then crawls off of his pillow. The whole table goes into a frenzy, urging Daniel to _save her, saver her_ , and just as he's wrapping his strong arms around her stomach, Rachel comes to the realization that this is so completely unnecessary.

Sure, Santana looks concerned and a little freaked out as she continually mutters expletives under her breath, but there is no way this stupid plan—no matter how well thought out and executed—is going to make her jealous of Daniel.

Rachel still doesn't even see _why_ she's trying to make Santana jealous in the first place.

Taking a sip of water, Rachel shakes her head and pushes Daniel away from her. Apparently she doesn't know her own strength, because Daniel goes flying backwards and lands behind her with a muffled _oomph_.

Being that they're seated right in the middle of the restaurant, most of the nearby patrons turn around to give their table a multitude of different looks—annoyance, amusement, unnerved—at the frequent disturbances coming from their section.

All is silent in the restaurant as Daniel gives her an incredulous look, and then carefully slinks back over to his pillow. Rachel tries her best to hide her burning blush and apologize to him at the same time.

Glancing up hesitantly, Rachel blanches to find Santana staring straight at her, eyebrows furrowed as if she's trying to solve a puzzle. Beside her, Henry is scratching the side of his head with deep uncertainty, and Cole's gone back to eating as if nothing strange ever happened, an occurrence like this probably being a normal night out for her.

The only person who seems amused by any of this is—who else?—Angela, who's smothering her laughter against Daniel's broad shoulder.

If every eye in the restaurant wasn't still on her, Rachel would totally flip Angela off. But every eye _is_ on her, including Santana's, so Rachel keeps her finger to herself.

\--

After dinner, they chat outside the restaurant for awhile before going their separate ways. The night is fairly warm for early winter, so she and Santana make the silent decision to walk home instead of hailing a cab like the rest of their friends. The restaurant is only a few blocks away from their apartment anyway.

Rachel doesn't say much on the walk back to their apartment, still embarrassed about what happened during dinner, and Santana doesn't say a word either. She looks contemplative, as if a million thoughts are zooming through her mind. Rachel side-eyes her roommate carefully and hopes against all hope that she's not putting two and two together. Whatever that even means, anyway. 

It's not until they're only a block away from their apartment does Santana bump her hip against Rachel's to get her attention. "I don't know if it was just me," she trails off uncertainly, "Or maybe you noticed too, but has Angela been trying to set you up with Daniel?"

It's happening. Angela's moronic plan to make Santana jealous is actually forming into something more than blatant nonsense. Rubbing her hands together to create heat, Rachel side-eyes Santana casually. "She...might have mentioned something about us making a cute couple."

Santana snorts out a laugh and shakes her head, but she doesn't say anything in response, only tucks her hands into her pockets with this look Rachel can't decipher.

Rolling her eyes, Rachel coughs out a laugh to alleviate the awkwardness. "What, you don't think so?" she asks, taking a deep breath to calm the rapid speed of her heartbeat. "Because, um...I was seriously considering accepting his request for a date the next time he asked me out."

Rachel honestly can't remember the last time she lied so much in a matter of five minutes. But if Santana's allowed to experiment, so can she. That's really all any of this is, anyway. She just wants to see Santana's reaction, what she'll say in response to her itty bitty fibs.

Santana simply shrugs. "Daniel's, um...he's good-looking, I guess. Has that whole dance physique going for him," she says, sounding mildly uncomfortable. "He _could_ be mediocre in bed, but that's all just physical, you know."

It makes Rachel smile that Santana is willing to go out of her comfort zone to help her. Not even her straight friends give her advice when it comes to who she should date and why, and it's sweet that Santana, despite her history with guys, is offering to talk it out with her.

Looking down at her feet, Santana side-steps the cracks in the sidewalk. "I'm not saying this to be mean, Rach, but if you want something different than what you had with Finn, I would _not_ recommend Daniel."

"No?" Rachel ventures, tilting her head sideways to catch Santana's eyes.

Brown eyes glisten under a streetlamp, and Rachel holds her breath at the nervous flutter of butterflies in her stomach. Santana folds her arms over her chest with this faraway look, eyes squinted against the blowing wind.

"You...you have these big spikes of enthusiasm whenever you stumble across a random factoid, and for the next two and a half minutes it is the most mind-boggling idea the world has ever known," Santana chuckles with a roll of her eyes, shifting a little closer to Rachel when a crowd of people try to squeeze in between them. "You can rock a winter beanie and a Yankees cap no problem. You make sexual innuendos with the most innocent face, and you always decline wanting anything when I offer to order takeout, but then you steal the food off _my_ plate because it smells good."

Lowering her eyes, Rachel lets out a short laugh. That was...really spot on. If she didn't believe Santana knew anything about her before, she's just been proven wrong. The other girl may even know her a little bit better than she knows herself at the moment.

Santana purses her lips in thought. "Rachel, you need someone who notices all of those things without being told." She shrugs her shoulders, as if all of this is common knowledge. "Daniel? He’d need to have it spelled out for him. Just like Finnocence did."

The mention of Finn still hurts, but day by day, the pain is slowly fading away. In its place, Rachel's beginning to realize that there doesn't have to be an empty hole of loss when she has Santana.

"You only deserve the best, Rachel, and I'll always make sure of it," Santana adds, smiling softly. "You've looked out for me, but now I need to start doing the same."

Rachel lifts her head, and they hold eye contact for a moment until a red blush reaches her cheeks. She doesn't think about whether it's from the cold or Santana, because she thinks she might already know.

Knocking her in the hip once again, Santana arches an eyebrow and whispers, "You'll find that person, Rach. Some things just take time, but you'll find that person."

It's a fleeting thought, but Rachel thinks she might have already found her.

 


	2. 'cause tonight there's a way i'll make light

Life has a funny way of eating you, chewing you up into a bunch of tiny chunks and pieces, swallowing you whole, and then regurgitating you out on to the sidewalk for all to see once it's done with you. Rachel knows this to be true; it’s happened to her more times than she can count.

It’s no secret she’s been through a lot in her measly eighteen years on this earth. She's dealt with bullying, hatred, feeling unwanted, putting her feelings out on the line, exposing her emotions for all to see.

It's not fun being ridiculed or mocked, but sometimes there's nothing else you can do but put on a brave face and fend off the hurtful words until it's time to break free. It took many lonesome nights and cold mornings. It took knowing she would never get invited to the best parties (or any at all, for that matter) or liked enough to have someone sit next to her at lunch, but Rachel never forgot who she is, and she made it because of that.

She succeeded in spite of all the naysayers, which just goes to show that some advice is better left ignored. You can't take everything to heart or at face value. Some people just say things to hurt you, for no other reason than to cause pain, and Rachel knows this better than anyone.

She's spent a lot of time thinking about this lately; the difficulties of high school and college and everything else she may face tomorrow or the day after that or beyond. She's spent a lot of time alone, reminiscing over everything she's lost in exchange for the things she's found. She's spent a lot of time in Cobblestones, gazing across the cozy coffee shop at her roommate as she serves coffee and wipes down the counter and refills the napkin dispensers.

Watching Santana helps her, sometimes, when reminiscing about high school. But then, it also confuses her. Somehow, whenever she looks at her roommate, it's hard to see the same angry girl that used to simmer ultimate rage with her arms crossed tightly under her ample breast in the back of the choir room.

Santana's open and happy and she's in her element here in the city. There's barely even a pinch of the old Santana left, other than her quick wit and blunt sarcasm. She's still not afraid to speak her mind, but now she makes sure to filter her more lewd comments when around people who don't really understand her humor.

This kind of understanding is not only sweet but endearing. Rachel doubts many people see that side of her roommate. Santana doesn't necessarily keep her compassion hidden anymore, but she's definitely not shouting out how adorable she is from off the rooftops either.

Angela's words ring in her ears—something about crushes and unrequited love—and Rachel rolls her eyes at the thought. Santana is attractive and funny and smart, and she's totally going to make some girl very happy one day, but that girl is _not_ Rachel, and she's more than happy about that.

Santana would drive her up a freaking wall if they were ever together, so that's never going to happen, especially since she's not even into girls like that.

\--

She's never spent the holidays without her dads. Before she had glee club and friends and Mr. Schuester, it was just the three of them at the piano, laughing and cheerfully singing along to Christmas and Hanukkah songs together.

But it's not going to be like that this year. She doesn't even have Kurt now. Only Santana. Which isn't a bad thing. No, it's not bad at all.

A few months ago, it would have been a huge issue. She and Santana all alone in a vacant loft for the entire holiday? If that wasn't a suicide mission, Rachel doesn't know what is. But now she doesn't really mind it.

Being with Santana is kind of like spending the holiday with her family, anyway. Santana's like that random member of the family who sneaks her way into the wedding. She was never even invited to attend in the first place, but here she is anyway, charming her way into everyone's hearts, dancing along with all of the kids and senior citizens, easily winning everybody over, and by the end of the wedding, she even has the bride and groom asking, "Who was that remarkable woman?"

When Rachel first learned of her fathers' Christmas vacation to Australia, she felt a little left out, of course, because it's _Australia_. It may have gigantic bugs, poisonous animals, and scorching heat, but Rachel's wanted to go there since she was a like, a tiny kid

But then again, maybe she shouldn't be complaining. That'd be quite selfish of her, especially since Santana's parents are still mad she dropped out of college without telling them and banned her from coming home this holiday.

Other than the two of them, it seems everyone else has left the city for the holidays. Kurt's back home in Lima, probably doing last minute Christmas shopping with Burt, Carole, and Finn, while simultaneously trying to avoid Blaine (which more than likely won't happen if Kurt ends up at the mall, which is like, Blaine's domain, or something).

Cole disappeared to Europe about two days ago, and Rachel can't exactly say she's upset by this news. She's many things, but she is not a liar.

Santana spent almost the entire night at Cole's place before she left, and then went with her to the airport to see her off. Cole's a distraction, Rachel knows. It's Santana's way of trying to forget about Brittany by immersing herself in hot, meaningless sex, which, she'll say again, is not the healthiest way in which to get over someone, but this time Rachel backs off, because Santana already knows how much she disapproves of their nightly _arrangement_.

Henry, on the other hand, left a few days ago to visit his family in Iowa, or was it Illinois? Idaho, maybe? Rachel doesn't recall, but she knows it was one of those midwestern "I" states. After Kurt left, Henry had hung out at the loft, mostly with Santana since they've surprisingly become such good friends, and it definitely wasn't lost on neither she nor Santana that Henry was a little upset about not getting invited to Lima to meet Kurt's family.

Apparently he thought they were on that level of their relationship, which Rachel thinks might be pushing the envelope a bit, since they've really only been dating for two and a half months, not nearly long enough to be on that step of the relationship yet. Regardless, he had sulked here for awhile, until Santana reassured him that everything would be okay (along with one of those genuine smiles she only keeps handy for her closest friends).

Unlike the rest of their friends, Angela and Daniel stayed in the area. The blonde is already from New York, so it's not like she had anywhere else to go, and Daniel's from Detroit, but he doesn't like to fly, so he only ever goes home during the summer when it's absolutely necessary.

On a more personal note, Santana's been down lately. Rachel's not particularly sure why, so she does what she always tends to do when she doesn't know something. She asks. Santana doesn't answer though. The quick shake of her head makes it pretty clear to Rachel that Santana doesn't want to talk about it, and that's fine. Rachel thinks she may know what's up with her roommate anyway.

Santana's parents aren't the most hands-on people in the world. Rachel's never even seen them before, and that should definitely say something considering she's known Santana since that summer before freshman year when she fell off her bike right in front of Rachel's house (which is another story for another day).

So, this much is at least clear; Santana misses her parents, but she doesn't want to admit it because she likes to pretend that she's tough, and Rachel gets that. She does. Especially when it involves family issues. Rachel still hasn't seen Shelby since the middle of senior year, right after the Troubletones lost Sectionals to the New Directions.

Crazy enough, leaving wasn't even the part of Shelby’s disappearance that hurt the most. It’s the fact that she, once again, didn't even say goodbye when she left.

-

There's something about the holidays that make the most uptight people radiate pure joy. Rachel wouldn't exactly call herself uptight, but she concedes that there's been certain points in time where she hasn't been able to take a load off and relax. But that's not really her fault. She blames genetics.

Humming a tune under her breath, Rachel sort of wishes there was Christmas music playing as she hangs up a snowflake ornament on the little Christmas tree Santana bought at the store the other day.

It's almost as bad as the Charlie Brown Christmas tree, but Rachel doesn't mind. Christmas is all about how it's the thought that really counts anyway, and truthfully she wasn't expecting them to even have decorations this year, so this tree is definitely more than she could have hoped for.

From across the room, Santana catches her eye and smiles. Rachel didn't even realize she was staring at the other girl. Her cheeks grow hot as she looks back down at the pine cone ornament in her hand.

"So," Santana picks up her mug of steaming hot cocoa and takes a sip. Rachel curls a strand of hair behind her ear and watches the swirls of condensation float up from the white mug. "Where's your yarmulke?"

After about five seconds of puzzled silence, Rachel smiles and goes, "My what?

"You know," Santana trails off, lifting her hand casually. "That thing with the eight candles that you light every night or something."

Brows furrowed, Rachel stares at Santana until it clicks. She has to hold a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting out into a fit of giggles. It takes some serious control not to laugh right in Santana's face, but she holds it in, because Santana's only 18, and it's not like they often learned about other cultures back at McKinley.

"Santana, I think you're referring to a Menorah. A yarmulke is a skull-cap worn by Orthodox Jewish men," Rachel explains, patiently. "Hanukkah ended days ago, and I don't even own a Menorah, which I suppose answers your first question."

Santana looks so confused it's almost adorable. "But you're Jewish," she says, like that should explain everything, and oh dear, it seems as if Rachel is going to have to spell this out for her. "Isn't that like, blasphemy or something to skip Hanukkah? Puck used to say that forgetting to light a candle meant—"

"Please, Santana, for both our sake, do not get your information from Puck. He hasn't been to temple since the fifth grade," Rachel says, bending down to dig through a cardboard box for some lights. "It was more my dad who celebrated all of those Jewish traditions anyway. I embrace it because of the culture and heritage, but when it comes to religion, well, I'm a lot more...free-spirited.”

"So, you don't celebrate Hanukkah?" Santana asks carefully.

Rachel shakes her head. "No, not really," she admits, watching in amusement as Santana tries to unwrap a long roll of tinsel from around her ankle.

"Meaning I don't have to go out and buy you eight different gifts?"

"While I find your interest in my culture extremely endearing," Rachel untangles the wire of lights wrapped around the pile of ornaments in the cardboard box, "and while I surely wouldn't mind extra presents, it would be highly unnecessary to buy me eight gifts."

After freeing herself from the tinsel, Santana clutches the sparkly bundle in her arms and takes a seat on the edge of their coffee table. "Well, that's good," she says, peeking up at Rachel with a smirk. "I don't make that kind of money anyway, so thanks for not actually being Jewish."

After a comment like that, Rachel doesn't think it's too unwarranted to throw a pine cone ornament at Santana when she has her back turned, but then she thinks maybe she should have thought it through a little more when Santana comes charging after her with a full bowl of popcorn. (The popcorn they're supposed to be using to decorate the tree.)

Eyes wide, Rachel drops the lights and runs away from Santana as fast as her legs can carry her, but Santana doesn't waste any time in dashing after her, yelling, "Get your sweet ass back here, Berry! I swear, when I catch you—"

Santana chases her around the Christmas tree, the kitchen counter, and even trips over the rug in the hallway when Rachel fakes her out by the bathroom door. There's a ten second standoff where it seems all Santana can do is hold up the bowl of popcorn, grinning so widely it looks like her face will split in half, and Rachel's giggling so hard her stomach starts to cramp up.

She lets out a peal of laughter when Santana finally traps her on the couch and dumps the whole bowl of popcorn over her head. "Santana!" Rachel squeals, laughing hysterically when her roommate plops down beside her, pulls a piece of popcorn out of her hair, and then throws it into her mouth with a loud crunch.

Laughing, Rachel looks around and there is popcorn literally everywhere; on the couch, scattered all over their floor, even tucked deep inside her bra. Smirking, Rachel reaches inside and catches Santana's eye with a wink as she throws it into her mouth.

\--

She's usually on top of stuff like this. If she were back in Lima, she would've had her Christmas shopping done on Black Friday and Cyber Monday, but because of Santana's insistence that she spend a little money on herself this year instead of others, Rachel is now scrambling around at the last minute for gifts.

Yesterday, she finally found her dads a nice set of towels and matching gold cufflinks. She's still a little upset they ditched her for Australia, but they're her parents, and she still loves them.

She also still maybe kind of loves Finn, but whenever she thinks of him, how he broke up with her, and how they still haven't spoken to each other since that conversation—mostly because Rachel refuses to answer any of his calls in fear that she'll unwillingly take him back as soon as she hears the sorrow in his voice—Rachel's heart sinks deeper into her stomach.

She doesn't particularly love that feeling very much, so she thinks of other things instead; nice things, new things that make her heart soar, things like Santana Lopez, for example. But her roommate's only one of the many things in this city that make her happy, of course. There are a plethora of other aspects like...

Well, she can't exactly think of them at the moment, but it'll come to her later on. Santana's just been on the forefront of her mind lately. She's never gone Christmas shopping for the girl before. Not even when they were in glee club together. Although she's gotten to know Santana in a lot of ways recently—more than she ever expected and sometimes needed—Rachel's still not sure what to get her, and it's more than a little frustrating.

It seems Angela agrees by the way she's lazily straggling behind as they go up and down every single aisle of every single boutique they pass on the street. "Just pick something, Rachel," she groans, shuffling her feet around like a petulant child. "I'm sure she won't give a shit. Santana _never_ gives a shit."

And while that comment might seem true to outsiders, Rachel knows it's wrong. Santana cares about a myriad of things people would never even expect. It's not all material to Santana; she likes meaningful, sensitive, well thought-out kinds of things. She likes programs on Animal Planet, and old black and white films, and books about philosophy, especially now that Cole is an influential part of Santana's life, much to Rachel's annoyance.

It's not that she dislikes the girl, but it took Rachel almost two months to get Santana to try anything close to a vegan meal, but all Cole had to do was show up with this hot body and a bag of weed, and poof, Santana's following her all over the city like a damn puppy.

Rachel supposes it's a little like how she was with Angela in September—minus the constant sex, obviously—whereas Santana just needs someone a little bit more knowledgeable about New York to show her the ropes until she can rule the city just like she did McKinley High.

Santana's not all about control—not like Quinn Fabray was; she won't crash and burn without it—but she does like a semblance of direction, something to grasp onto and hold until she knows what she's doing, where she's going, and who she's going there with. She's strategic and she plans, and although the things she says and does may seem totally out of the blue sometimes, Santana always has something cooking up in that big, conniving brain of hers.

"I can't just get her _anything_ ," Rachel says, continuing to scan the clothing racks. "Santana's a lot more complex than you give her credit for."

"Oh, yeah. She's complex, all right." Angela rolls her eyes as she picks out a sweater from off the shelf and holds it up against her. She looks to Rachel, raises an eyebrow, but the sweater is much too small, so Rachel scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

Big is in, according to Santana, which is kind of ironic, really, since her roommate was mostly known for wearing the tightest and skimpiest clothing in high school. But apparently New York isn't like that.

For hipsters and artsy folk, it's the bigger the better during fall and winter. Rachel can only imagine what silly thing they'll come up with for spring and summer. Hopefully it doesn't include nudity.

She's trying her best to keep up—really, she is, even if Santana sometimes says she's not trying hard enough—but there are just so many rules when it comes to fashion that Rachel's having a hard time remembering whether turquoise is more of a spring color or a winter color.

"You're thinking about Santana," Angela says, studying the look on Rachel's face.

Rachel hates how insightful her friend can be. First the crush, now this? "Of course I'm thinking about her," Rachel says coolly, because if she gets too defensive, Angela will assume she's right about Rachel having feelings for her roommate, which is just preposterous. "After all, she's the person I'm Christmas shopping for at this particular moment."

"You two are oddly affectionate for best friends," Angela points out, albeit randomly.

Shoving her gloved hands into her coat pockets, Rachel shrugs and says, "I'm an affectionate person. I used to warn Santana before hugging her, you know."

"And you don't anymore?"

"Not really," _or at all_ , Rachel doesn't add, because now she just hugs Santana whenever she wants, and surprisingly Santana does the same. But she doesn't mention that either. "We're just...like that now, I suppose."

"Like that?" Angela wiggles her eyebrows and elbows Rachel in the side with a look. "What's _that_?"

Rachel makes a face. "Must you always be so suggestive? I repeat, Angela; Santana and I are nothing but friends, okay?”

"Okay," Angela drawls. "Though it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself rather than me."

Rachel ignores her when she comes across a shelf of electronic accessories. "Ooh," she murmurs, reaching forward. "Do you think Santana would like this?"

"A blinged out iPhone case," Angela deadpans, slowly shaking her head. "No, you can't give her that. You wanna know what I think?" Rachel doesn't, actually, but Angela tells her anyway. "I suggest something a little more intimate. Like perfume or jewelry, maybe. But if you really wanna get somewhere, you should probably buy her a red thong. Santana looks gorgeous in red."

Rachel rolls her eyes, annoyed, but then wonders, "Since we're on the topic of intimacy, exactly how far did you and Santana go back when you had that _thing_?"

It's really none of her business, and Santana would definitely killer her if she knew Rachel was asking, but Angela doesn't seem to mind. (There's really nothing much that's off limits when it comes to the blonde. Angela's been known to over share, which can sometimes be a good thing and a horrible thing depending on whom she's sharing about, or sharing with.)

"We never went past kissing...and some boob play," Angela adds, picking up a set of earmuffs from off the miscellaneous counter. "Santana's an excellent kisser, just saying. Her lips are like... _mmm_ , as soft as they look."

Rachel keeps her expression neutral. It takes some serious facial muscles to refrain from grimacing. "Didn't need to know that much," she mutters under her breath, continuing down the aisle.

Angela laughs and trails a few steps behind. "Hey, if you really wanna know what she wants, why don't you just ask her yourself? May come in handy for future situations."

Rachel keeps on walking and maybe even widens her stride. She's not particularly sure whether her friend is talking about what Santana wants, or what Santana _wants_ , so she chooses to think the former. "Actually, I have a better idea." She pauses near the shoe section and turns to Angela with a hopeful smile. "Why don't you text Santana and ask what she wants? For Christmas," she specifies firmly at the smirk on Angela's face.

"Yeah, because that's not totally random. She won't suspect a thing," Angela murmurs, even as she takes her phone out of her pocket. She taps something out real quick, and not even five seconds later, her phone makes a ding noise, and Angela snorts as she shows Rachel her screen.

_not a chance in hell I'm telling you, spy kid. nice try, rach_ , it reads, and Rachel feels herself deflate as she lets out a breathy laugh.

Angela shrugs, and then pockets her phone. "Looks like you're on your own, sugar," she says sympathetically. "But hey, look on the bright side; at least you still have a totally awesome friend who is even more awesome today."

Angela gives her a look and Rachel takes the bait. "And why, might I ask, are you even more awesome today than on any other day of the week?"

Her friend cheeses so wide Rachel fears her face will break in half. "Because, my dear friend, I have two tickets to Radio City Music Hall to see, drum roll please..."  She makes a gurgling noise with her mouth, which definitely draws a few odd looks from other customers in the store. Reaching into her bag, Angela pulls out a white envelope and says, " _A Christmas Carol_! Merry Christmas!"

"Oh, Angela, this is amazing!" Rachel goes in for a hug. Gosh, now she needs to find a gift for Angela, and probably Daniel as well, knowing he'll more than likely buy her something very unnecessary which she'll just end up exchanging the day after Christmas. "Oh my gosh, thank you, Angela. This is absolutely terrific," she says, pulling away. "You have to come with me!"

"Ah, ah, ah," Angela tsks, pulling the envelope away when Rachel tries to reach for it. "You can have these tickets, but on one condition. You gotta take Santana with you."

Rachel sighs. It did all seem too good to be true. "Please don't tell me this is another one of your schemes."

"Not schemes, Rachel," Angela says, wagging a finger at her. "Plans."

"You seriously bought these just so I could take Santana out?"

"Um, no. I'm not _that_ awesome. These tickets were mine, and I was gonna take Daniel, but then Henry invited him to a Knicks game, and you know guys; sports overrule musical theatre in any argument."

Rachel clucks her tongue. "Tell that to Kurt."

Angela laughs as she tucks the envelope into Rachel's purse. "If this isn't what I think it is, then fine. I don't see why there's any reason for you to get all worked up over something that's not there, so go, have a good time with your _friend_ , and if you don't get laid by the end of the night, I'll surrender the rest of my plans."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Better burn the rest of your plans, because that is never happening."

Angela looks like she's wants to say more on the subject, but for once she keeps her mouth shut and instead holds up a pair of boots. "Do you think these say peck me cutely, or fuck me senseless?"

Rachel narrows her eyes. "Fuck me senseless," she says, dubiously taking in the silver spikes on the incredibly high heels. "Definitely fuck me senseless."

"Well, only because you asked so nicely."

\--

Rachel probably should've known by now that there's not an eye roll in the world big enough for Santana to express how much she loathes the idea of seeing _A Christmas Carol_ , but all Rachel can do is smile indulgently, because she knows Santana, and Rachel absolutely adores the fact that her roommate doesn't even realize how readable she is to the people closest to her.

Santana acts like she hates the idea, but Rachel knows she loves it.

It's a cool night, so they decide to take a taxi halfway there and then walk the rest of the distance to sight-see and awe at the pretty Christmas decorations. Just simply being part of the city atmosphere is enough for Rachel. Before they even get to Rockefeller Center, Santana's already grinning widely and pointing at every single thing they pass, which just makes Rachel smile in return.

Santana takes her by the arm, pulling her all around here and there. They still have about an hour before the show starts, so Rachel supposes a little strolling around won't throw them too off schedule.

Twenty five minutes later, they're outside of the theatre getting their tickets punched in the booth, and then they're escorted to their seats by a helpful usher walking up and down the aisles. He tells them to enjoy the show, and instead of scoffing like Rachel thought she would, Santana smiles gratefully and then thanks him for his assistance.

The curtains rise about ten minutes after they've gotten comfortable in their seats—not too close to the stage, but not too far either—and Santana's enraptured as soon as the first song starts.

For most of the musical, Rachel doesn't even look at the stage. She's too busy studying the facial expressions that pass over Santana's face whenever something particularly sad, happy, or depressing happens in the play.

Santana takes it like a champ though, and doesn't even start crying until the last scene when Scrooge realizes how much of an asshole he's been and helps Tiny Tim, or something. Rachel hasn't seen this play since she was like five, and it's not like she was really paying much attention tonight, so forgive her for her lack of knowledge.

Santana wipes her tears away as soon as the lights turn on in the theatre, and Rachel doesn't mention seeing her cry. Just witnessing the emotion flash across Santana's face throughout the entire play is kind of surreal for Rachel. She knew Santana was sensitive, but not a total sap. The realization makes her smile.

After collecting their things, they head out of the theatre and walk the streets of the city, Santana rambling on and on about how great the acting was and how the only reason it was so good was because the kid who played Tiny Tim was _freakin' adorable_. Smiling, Rachel easily agrees; Santana's probably right anyway, so she's not going to argue. Just being here, with one of her closest friends, is the best thing she could have hoped for, especially with Kurt away in Lima for the holidays.

Rachel's not sure what's different, but there's something electric in the air between them. Something about how comfortable they are with each other, how far they've come in terms of trusting and caring for one another should alert Rachel to her very undefined feelings for Santana; it should alert her to the funny twist she feels in the pit of her stomach every time Santana looks at her with those swirly brown eyes.

Angela's words echo in her mind like a broken record player, and Rachel sighs as realization tries to break through her stubbornness. She pushes the thoughts away. Santana's her friend. Her very attractive friend who is attracted to women. Her roommate's sexuality shouldn't even be a factor in how she feels—her own sexual orientation should be a bigger deal, honestly—yet somehow it still kind of matters. It matters a lot.

But no matter how beautiful Santana is, how easy she is to talk to, and how much Rachel's come to love the girl as a friend, she won't let herself indulge in those very conflicting feelings of hers. No, she's not going there.

She glances over at Santana, who's still talking about something or another as she wraps an arm around Rachel's shoulder and tucks her into her side. She's so warm, so comfortable in the way the side of their bodies mold together.

Santana's wrapped up in Rachel's favorite red scarf that she borrowed months ago and never actually gave back—which probably makes it more stealing—but Rachel doesn't really mind.

Santana can keep the scarf, as long as she gives Rachel her heart back.

-

There's only two gifts under the tree, but neither of them really mind. Santana says something about it looking grunge, like they're in _Rent_ , or something, just barely making it, living without warm water and even food sometimes. But Santana likes to play make-believe every now and then, because they're not even close to living like that.

Their apartment is all brick and no walls, freezing cold water when their super bails out of doing his job, and there are dangerous electrical circuits that sometimes causes the power to go out, but their loft is warm today, they have way too much food in the refrigerator, and they're not even close to being evicted like the characters in _Rent_ , thank God.

Santana doesn't have work for the next couple days, because she took off so Rachel wouldn't be alone at the loft during the holiday. But she complains of being bored every five minutes, which is kind of an odd mixture of annoying and endearing. Instead of rolling her eyes, Rachel smiles sweetly and suggests they bake vegan cookies or vegan muffins or a vegan cake or a vegan something.

Santana makes a face at every single one of those suggestions, but it seems boredom beats out disgust today, because an hour later, they find themselves down at the corner store, picking up ingredients for the vegan chocolate chip cookies Rachel plans on making once they get back to the loft.

Rachel may suck at cooking, but she definitely knows her way around batter and a whisk. Santana and Kurt are the cooks, and they barely ever let her touch anything but the toaster and the microwave, so it feels pretty damn good to be in charge of the kitchen for once.

Santana seems bummed that it's going to take so long to bake, and only five minutes after the first batch is shoved into the oven, she's back to complaining and whining about being bored, so Rachel turns on the stereo near their bookcase and gives Santana a look when Vampire Weekend starts blasting from the speakers.

Santana just shrugs her shoulders and explains that it's Cole's CD, but Rachel doesn't want to talk about _her_ , so she shrugs her shoulders too and then turns up the volume.

The music actually isn't too bad; maybe a little too out there and alternative for her tastes—Rachel's more of a Barbra and Celine girl, after all—but the songs do have a nice bumping beat to it that have her and Santana jumping around the living area, dancing around like total freaks by the time _Diane Young_ comes on.

Because they're both so lost in their silly movements and hysterical laughter as they bounce on and off the couch and over the coffee table, the first batch of cookies totally burns right through. Santana smells it first and rushes off towards the kitchen, Rachel right on her heels as they race to the oven, waving off clouds of smoke as they do so.

Santana turns off the oven as Rachel grabs a dish towel and holds it up against her nose and mouth to protect her precious lungs. The cookies don't actually look too bad, but there is no way Rachel is going to ruin her insides by eating them, though it seems Santana has other ideas.

She pulls out the carton of milk, crushes a whole cookie with her fist against the kitchen counter, and then scrapes the crumbs into the milk carton. Rachel doesn't say a word, just watches on in both amusement and confusion as Santana shakes up the carton and then takes a few long gulps.

Rachel raises an eyebrow, waiting for the verdict. With her lips screwed to the side, Santana eventually lifts her hand into a thumbs up, saying, "Shit tastes good.”

Santana easily drinks the rest of the carton of milk, which has Rachel cringing as her roommate steadily gulps it down, and only because their stereo is on loop and _Diane Young_ starts playing all over again, they go back to dancing in the living area until Santana grows nauseous and scurries off towards the bathroom to deliver an early Christmas gift to their toilet.

Rachel holds Santana's hair out of the way, but she just can't stop laughing as Santana dry heaves into the toilet and flips her off at the same time.

Obviously if she still has the strength to be irritated, she's going to be just fine

\--

Angela and Daniel come over, rather unexpectedly, on Christmas Eve to—as Angela puts it— _chill with the peeps_. Santana looks annoyed when she pulls the door open and they come barging in, and Rachel narrows her eyes in confusion from where she's reading on the couch.

But they come bearing gifts, so Santana shrugs her shoulders and goes back to her spot on the couch beside Rachel.

Angela shoots Rachel a knowing look, lips curled into a suggestive smirk as she places the gift bags underneath their little green tree. Rachel rolls her eyes as she puts her book down and scoots over to make room on the couch for Daniel, and then Santana takes it upon herself to ask, "Why aren't you losers with your families like normal people?"

Angela sassily places a hand on her hip and quips, "I don't see any other bad-mouthed Latinos walking around here, so I guess you must be a loser too," and then explains that she can't take one more minute of her psycho (mobster) family.

Then, everyone looks to Daniel, who just shrugs his shoulders and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. He's been known to go anywhere Angela goes, so Rachel suspects that's his excuse for ditching his uncle who supposedly lives in Queens.

They order pizza (mushrooms for Angela, pineapples for Daniel, pepperoni for Santana, and cheese-less for Rachel), because no one really feels like cooking, and then they watch _Breaking Bad_ (after an intense debate over whether it's rude or disrespectful to watch a show about meth, sex, and murder on such a sacred holiday), but then Santana says, "fuck it," and presses play, and like, who can argue with that?

Rachel doesn't mind anyway. She's content to watch whatever Santana wants, which Angela is much too happy to point out many times throughout the night with sly comments and suggestive jokes.

Santana, who's usually so alert and cognizant when it comes to puns and sarcasm and well-placed quips, is none the wiser as she munches on her pepperoni pizza and yells at the television whenever the Wifi conks out and the picture freezes.

Unlike her roommate, Rachel turns red after every deliberate comment like, "Isn't it kind of weird how R and S fall right next to each other in the alphabet?" and, "Sex with friends is always, _always_ the hottest.”

Santana easily ignores Angela; she's way too enraptured in her favorite show to actually give a shit, and Rachel couldn't be more grateful as she lifts her arm over Santana's head to flip Angela off. Laughing, Daniel almost chokes on his slice of pizza, but Rachel doubts he has any inclination of what's happening right in front of his face, much like her oblivious roommate.

After finishing season 3, Rachel pops up excitedly and exclaims that it's time to open presents. Annoyed by this development, Santana whines about wanting to start season 4, because that cliffhanger was insane, and she just needs to know what happens or she'll die.

But then Rachel says something about Santana being overdramatic, and Angela makes another suggestive comment that goes right over everyone's head, and then Santana finally gives in. "I can barely remember why we're arguing, so let's just get it over with," she mutters, rolling her eyes, and Rachel beams as she scurries off to the tree and grabs a tiny turquoise box.

Smiling, Santana accepts the present with a timid _thank you_ as she rips through the wrapping paper, quite neatly, actually, and then carefully flips the small box open. Her toothy smile widens even more when her eyes land on the aquamarine birthstone necklace placed in the small jewelry box.

Santana arches a brow. "You know when my birthday is?"

It's a ridiculous question as far as Rachel's concerned. "Of course, Santana. March 3rd," she says, giggling nervously. She side-eyes Angela, who's looking at the two of them as if they're the most entertaining spectacle at the circus, and then she glances back at Santana. "Do you know mine?" she challenges.

"Duh. August 21st." Santana gives her a genuine smile, and Rachel tries her hardest to focus on that while continuing to ignore Angela's smug grin. "Gimme _some_ cred, Berry. I'm not like totally clueless."

But still kind of clueless. Even Angela scoffs out a noise that sounds like an odd mixture between a weedwhacker and a motorcycle. Rachel cuts the blonde with a look, and Angela finally manages to stifle her giggles with a tight-lipped smile.

After clipping the necklace on, Santana gives Rachel a hug—something she didn't think she'd want from Santana as much as she's does now—but then Santana's out of her arms before Rachel can even get into it, handing her a giant gift box with a nervous half-smile. (Is it weird Rachel would rather have that smile for Christmas than whatever is in this box?)

She tears off the wrapping paper with the same care Santana used when opening her own gift. But even before all of the paper has come off, Rachel grins excitedly. "Oh, Santana," she says, glancing up at her roommate with wide eyes. Santana only smiles and gestures for her to keep going, so Rachel hurriedly rips off the rest of the paper—neatness be damned—and then actually squeals like a little kid on Christmas.

"Oh, sweet, a karaoke machine." Daniel holds his fist out to Santana, who looks at it in confusion. Rolling her eyes, she leaves him hanging, and then explains to Rachel all of the functions, and how she got it on sale, and then she gives Rachel a list of reasons why she'll never ever use it herself.

That part makes her pout, and by the guilty look on Santana's face, Rachel already knows her roommate's going to be using the karaoke machine by the end of the night.

Rachel tries her best to ignore Angela's side comments about how adorable a karaoke machine is, but Santana just smirks indulgently as Daniel sets it up to the television. They have to unplug the Wii, which Santana only uses for Netflix anyway, in order for it to fit, and then fifteen minutes later—after reading over the directions and putting batteries into the microphone—they're ready to rock and roll.

\--

Angela and Daniel get ready to leave at around 11pm. As Santana cleans up and trashes the pizza box, Rachel walks Angela to the door.

Daniel insists on helping Santana bring the dirty dishes into the kitchen before he puts his coat on, leaving Angela the opportunity to whisper, "Let the truth set you free, sugar." Rachel doesn't roll her eyes or flip Angela off this time around. For some reason, it does feel like she's keeping some kind of secret from her roommate.

It's never felt like a big deal. Not until tonight. Not until Santana bought her the perfect Christmas gift and remembered when her birthday is and sang a holiday love song with her like she wasn't the revolting creature she and Quinn used to call Manhands.

It wasn't so long ago that they were these complicated beings who referred to each other as frenemies, but to Rachel—after everything they've been through together since moving to New York—it almost feels like they've been close friends forever.

As Angela tugs on her jacket, she doesn't say anything more, just gives Rachel a look and lets Daniel wrap an arm around her shoulder as they exit the apartment. Blushing slightly at the implication of her feelings, Rachel shuts the big, metal door behind them, and then heads into the kitchen to help Santana with the dishes.

Santana does this adorable thing whenever she cleans. She's so focused on scrubbing that she doesn't even notice the way she pokes her tongue out of the side of her mouth, or the way she squints her eyes in concentration as she puts a plate into the dishwasher.

And, okay, Rachel will admit it, but only to herself. Maybe she does sort of have a tiny crush on her roommate.

But how could she not?

Santana's kind of...cute.

\--

"Oh my god, oh my god, Berry. Berry, Berry!"

Santana wakes her up at seven in the morning on Christmas. She comes in jumping on the bed, jabbering on about how she forgot to buy her parents a gift for Christmas, and if she doesn't send them something soon, they'll be even more pissed off at her.

Since they spent most of the early morning playing with the karaoke machine, Rachel can barely open her eyes as Santana raids her closet and pulls out dress after dress, sweater after sweater, because apparently she has to come along. (They've done everything together since the holidays started, so Rachel kind of figures they can't break that chain of events now.)

It's usually Santana who's not a morning person, but now Rachel's the zombie as she heads into the bathroom to brush her teeth. But she must be taking too long for Santana's taste. Before she's even finished at the sink, her roommate barges in, strips down right behind her—which then has a furious blush rising up Rachel's neck—and then jumps right into the shower.

Rachel almost chokes on her toothbrush as she rushes to finish brushing her teeth. Exiting the bathroom, she closes the door behind her, and the echo of Santana singing _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ causes goosebumps to rise on every visible part of her skin.

Goodness gracious. She needs coffee.

\--

Last last minute shopping for Santana's parents is kind of unbearable. Santana obviously doesn't know her folks as well as other children do, so she and Rachel basically spend half the day running around in circles.

It's a national holiday, and you'd think these stores would be shut down or something, but it's actually a little surprising to discover how many people are out exchanging presents, or like them, buying presents for the first time for family members they completely forgot about.

Santana clutches onto her hand and tugs her into a deserted bookstore she's apparently been to before with Cole. It's a nice, little comfy place, with fabric sofas, tall bookshelves, a shiny espresso machine, and an ancient computer tucked into the back of the room.

Rachel immediately falls in love with the place, but she's also a tad jealous Cole was the one to introduce Santana to all of the cool places in the city before Rachel even got the chance. Now she's the amateur out of everyone, including Kurt and Santana, which is just absurd. (New York is _her_ place; the place she's been dreaming of since she knew what dreams were. Shouldn't _she_ know more about this city than those two?)

Rachel's not particularly sure what they're doing here—unless Santana plans on getting her parents a book for Christmas—but she doesn't really mind either way as she strolls down the aisles and scans the books propped up on the shelves.

Santana trails behind her, and then wonders where the storeclerk is, saying, "If I was still a shoplifter, this place would've been empty in a fucking minute," and despite the ludicrousness of the statement, Santana's right—the storeclerk is nowhere to be seen.

They walk back to the front of the bookstore, right to the register, and call out for help, because Santana found this book on magic and illusions, and she really wants to buy it for her dad as a joke.

A man pops up from behind the counter, startling Rachel into a shriek as she jumps back and uses the book as a shield. But Santana doesn't move a muscle, just rolls her eyes as she grabs her book away from Rachel's face and sets it down on the counter.

The storeclerk is not even the least bit frightening, other than the curly handlebar mustache he has plastered on the top of his lip. He tells him that his name is Frankie, and that's he's doing some kind of experiment, but it's obvious he's a little disturbed, so neither she nor Santana question it.

"So, can I buy this book, or what?" Santana asks, sliding it across the counter as she digs into her bag for some cash.

Frankie seems amused by her attitude, and Rachel can't really blame him. Santana's adorable when she gets all angry. It honestly used to scare her, but now she can't help but compare her roommate to a feisty little puppy whenever she gets huffy about stuff that gets on her nerves.

After ringing them up, Frankie gets this gassy look on his face as he points up. Both she and Santana follow his finger, and Rachel's heart beats violently hard against her chest at the sight of what's hanging from the ceiling above them.

They're standing beneath a mistletoe, and Frankie the storeclerk says they _must_ kiss, store rule, with this sickenly sweet grin. Rachel turns to Santana to catch her reaction, but the other girl doesn't look embarrassed or perturbed in the slightest. Rachel doesn't know whether to feel happy or disappointed by this fact.

Smirking, Frankie goes, "C'mon, don't be shy," and Rachel's totally expecting Santana to scoff, or to tell him off, or to smash his face in for being so suggestive, but instead Santana gives Rachel this flirty look before leaning in and placing a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek.

Rachel turns so red she's sure she resembles a hot pepper, but Santana doesn't seem to notice or even care how hot her face is as she playfully smushes her nose against Rachel's cheek and makes a loud _mwahh_ sound once she pulls away with a smack of her lips.

With a goofy smile, Rachel wipes at her cheek, and then rolls her eyes. "Was that really necessary?"

"Store rules." Santana raises her hands with a smug grin. "Besides, you know I can't resist how smokin' your ass looks in those skinny jeans."

And it's statements like that that have Rachel confused at times. She knows Santana couldn't possibly like her in _that_ way, but her roommate is a big flirt, and sometimes her come-ons seem like a lot more than just innocent quips, especially when Rachel catches Santana leering, which surprisingly happens a lot more than she thought it did now that's she's actually paying attention to these kinds of things.

Disappointed and bored, Frankie boos them and then hands Santana her purchase, but neither of them really care, especially Rachel when Santana wraps an arm around her waist as they make their way out onto the busy streets and into the chilly New York afternoon air.

 


	3. staring at the stars on your ceiling

It’s two days after Christmas, and Rachel’s in the kitchen doing her daily Sudoku when Santana comes straggling in, annoyed, with mussed hair and barely opened eyes, mumbling, “My stupid boss just called. The shop is fucking packed and half the employees are on vacation,” which pretty much means Santana has to go into work today, but it’s not like she can’t use the extra money.

At least that's what Santana’s implying by willingly going into work without too much of a fuss, so Rachel shrugs her shoulders and decides to tag along.

There’s nothing else to do around the loft anyway, and people-watching can be kind of fun from the back of the coffee shop. New York is full of very...fascinating individuals, and it’s never a boring trip to leave the loft in exchange for the city, so Rachel packs up her laptop, rolls up her Sudoku book, and then follows Santana out of the apartment.

Santana opens the door for Rachel on their way out, and Rachel tries her hardest to suppress the pleased smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth.

She doubts Santana would even notice anyway. She could blatantly tell Santana how she feels, and her roommate would probably still remain clueless. She could hold Santana’s hand, peck her on the cheek, and openly flirt with the girl, and she’d more than likely think Rachel’s only being her usual affable self. It’s both frustrating and relieving that Santana can so easily rule out Rachel’s recently awkward behavior as just nothing out of the ordinary.

For now, Rachel doesn’t want Santana to know. If Santana was anyone else but her roommate/friend/rival/past-frenemy, Rachel would have already told her by now.

If there’s one thing in this world Rachel’s definitely not afraid of, it’s expressing her feelings to the fullest, and that’s probably why this tiny crush is bothering her so much.

“How can you tell if a girl is into you?” Rachel blurts out on their way to Cobblestones. She didn’t really mean to say that out loud.

Santana gives her a look, surprised by the randomness of the question, but eventually she glances away with a shrug of her shoulders. “It’s all in the eyes.”

Rachel frowns. “All in the eyes?” she asks, because that just sounds terribly cliché and doesn’t exactly answer her question.

Santana stuffs her hands into her pockets, and then explains, “You don’t wanna look stupid and go after a woman who may only like you as a friend, so sometimes you gotta be cunning, like a tigress, and watch from afar. You know, make eye contact. That sorta thing.”

Rachel nods, distractedly listening as she tries to think whether there’s ever been a time a woman flirted with her without her knowledge. “Huh,” she breathes, tilting her head sideways, and then makes a note not to look too deep into Santana’s eyes anymore.

“Why do you ask?”

“Wh-what,” Rachel mumbles, and then turns her head to find Santana looking at her suspiciously. “Oh, you know, I just wanted to....” She coughs into her fist to buy herself some time. “I was just wondering.”

Santana smirks but doesn’t say a word, and Rachel looks away abruptly when she realizes they’ve just been staring at each other in the _eyes_ for a good five seconds or so.

 _No_.

No more eye contact.

\--

She sits at her regular table in the back, sets up her laptop, and then browses her favorite entertainment websites. If she’s going to be a celebrity one of these days, she needs to stay in the loop. How would it look if she had no idea who was with whom, or who sued whose own father? She needs to know these things if she’s going to one day be famous.

But then, somehow, she ends up on an article about how that girl from _Juno_ recently came out, which then takes her to a whole list of actresses who are gay, and then she clicks on a link, and bam, she’s on an entirely different website about what to do when attracted to another woman. It’s a very informative piece about fluidity, giving your desires a chance, discovering yourself for the first time, and how experimenting with your sexuality doesn’t have to be a scary thing.

Rachel exhales shakily as her eyes scan the page, because it sure _seems_ scary. That’s like, uncharted territory. There are certain spots you have to hit and crevices to search for and buttons to push, and just…

Well.

Down in the comments section, multiple women who have been through similar ordeals sound off about how _eye-opening_ and _sensual_ and _erotic_ it is to be with the same sex. She scrolls through the blogs carefully, eyes roaming over comments like, _i’d never orgasmed so hard until i was eaten out by a woman_ , and _this experience really opened up my eyes to how stuck i’d been both sexually and emotionally_.

But Rachel’s favorite post has to be from **sapphiccharmer21** , who writes, _there’s nothing more exhilarating than exposing yourself to a person who knows just what you want and how to please you, the intimacy is like no other, and afterwards, when coming down from that high, it’s like seeing the world in a whole new way_.

Rachel doesn’t even notice how hard she’s breathing until the man at the next table asks her if she’s okay. “You’re not having an asthma attack, are you?” he questions, concerned, and Rachel feels her entire face flush as she smiles tightly and shakes her head.

“No, no, I’m fine,” she says, quickly deleting her history and then exiting out of her windows. “I’m fine, sir. No need to worry.”

The man still looks dubious, but he eventually goes back to his newspaper after another moment of uncertainty. Rachel releases a sigh as she gazes across the coffee shop, and of _course_ her eyes find Santana, who looks to be in the middle of a heated confrontation with a customer, rolling her eyes as the elderly woman at the counter sneers angrily and knocks her cane against the plastic display.

Amused, Rachel leans an elbow on the table and watches Santana clench her jaw and breathe out steadily through her nose.

Her roommate’s eyes are always darkest when she’s upset about something, and Rachel somehow finds herself staring without even realizing it. She watches those deep dimples come out whenever Santana crinkles her nose a certain way, and she watches the way Santana licks her upper lip before going into another winded rant.

Rachel wonders if what the women wrote in those articles and blogs are really true. She’s only ever slept with Finn, so it’s not like she really has anything else to compare it to. But someone like Santana? She’s like, _made_ of sex appeal.

Sometimes she just walks around the loft in only a sports bra when the heater is acting up, and like, her abs are something to _die_ for. What was once unbridled envy has now transformed into want and desire and...lust, and Rachel really doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into by filling her mind with all of these sexual thoughts.

A few months ago, she could barely even stand to be in the same room as Santana for more than three minutes, but now she’s contemplating having sex with her? Rachel closes her eyes and squeezes the bridge of her nose. It’s crazy. Plain crazy. Santana’s her friend, and just because she’s a lesbian and willing to experiment doesn’t mean Rachel should take advantage of that.

Just the thought is despicable, so Rachel forces herself to think about something else, like finishing her Sudoku.

\--

On the walk home, they cut through a park, because Santana hasn't been to one since she left Lima, and apparently she misses grass.

Despite the oddness of that desire, Rachel somehow gets it. There are certain things she misses from Lima as well. Maybe not grass in particular, but she misses things. People, mostly. Like Mr. Schuester whenever her dance instructor is being a bitch. Or Puck whenever sleazy guys try to hit on her. Even Mercedes when the girls in her vocal class continuously challenge her for solos. But of course she's always going to have that pull back to Ohio. Lima's her hometown, after all.

Lima's where they both grew up, went to school, became individuals. Glee is in Lima, most of their friends, their favorite teacher, their first home, their bedrooms. Sure, they left it behind for something greater, but Lima will never, _ever_ stop being home.

Once they get to the park, Santana's not too impressed by the grass, obviously, because it's winter, and the grass is always yellow and brown and gross during the winter. They stroll down a path and huddle together to fight off the cold. A cart near the playground is selling cocoa, so Rachel orders them both a cup of soy milk hot chocolate.

God, she loves New York. They really do have everything, _everywhere_ , and maybe it's not just the magic of the holidays or this city or the hot cocoa that has Rachel feeling like she's invincible. Maybe it's the woman on her arm as they take a seat on a bench and sip from their hot beverages.

The day is slowly coming to an end as the sky turns pink. For a while, they sit in a comfortable silence, but Santana loves to talk, so she brings up _Breaking Bad_ and then starts analyzing the storyline, wondering if the writers of shows like that have a plan for where the story is going to end from the very beginning, or if they just wing it.

Thoughtful, Rachel says, "I'm pretty sure they have some idea as to how the show is going to conclude," because she loves plans, and she can't really see any kind of writing professionals simply throwing caution to the wind.

Santana hums in contemplation and really thinks about this, because she hasn't ignored anything Rachel's said for weeks now. (They're apparently on that type of friendship level, where they grant each other the kind of respect that comes along with actually listening to the words they share.)

Rachel finishes up her hot chocolate right around the same time as Santana, who then volunteers to throw the cups out. It's this kind of chivalry, the sweet, unnecessary kind, that has Rachel's heart fluttering like a pinwheel sometimes.

She watches with a tiny smile as Santana makes her way over to a trash can on the other side of the pathway, but that smile instantly falters when her roommate’s intercepted before she even makes it across.

A woman with dirty blonde hair and a red beanie approaches Santana with a shy smile, and then they start talking and smiling at each other, and Rachel's frozen between dumbly annoyed and stupidly jealous.

Wait, no. What’s _dumb_ are her thoughts. What's _stupid_ is this jealousy. She's _not_ jealous, because Santana's nothing more than a friend. Rachel barely even likes her like _that_ , anyway.

Barely.

So what, she has a crush.

Everybody has tiny infatuations with the people they admire. Santana's strong and resilient. She's been through so much over the last year, and she's only prevailed through all the shit her so-called friends and family have put her through.

Rachel adores that about her friend. That's _all_. It's harmless. A harmless attraction to her friend's determination to overcome every obstacle that's appeared in her way. Yes, it _could_ be sexual attraction, but for now Rachel’s going to base her new sudden interests on emotions alone. It’s easier that way. Safer.

Rachel watches them for a moment, content on staying right where she is, but then the woman rests a hand on Santana's forearm. A shiver crawls down Rachel's back at the sight, but she concedes to blame it on the cold.

She considers waiting them out and then asking Santana about it later, but something—she doesn't yet know _what_ , but it could possibly be the flirty smile slanting across Santana’s lips—has Rachel pushing off the cold bench and then quickly approaching them.

She just barely catches the end of Santana's sentence, "...totally ridiculous how brown the fucking grass is in New York," and then the blonde woman laughs into her gloved hand, because she's incredibly smitten with Santana, and of course she is; Santana's adorable, and because of the fact Santana doesn't even know how adorable she is just makes her even _more_ adorable.

Rachel steps up beside Santana, close enough to catch their attention, and Santana brightens up at her arrival, which just makes Rachel feel warm inside. "Hey, you," Santana says, smiling as she gestures to the blonde woman. "Rach, this is..."

There's a brief pause as the stranger catches on and quickly supplies, "Hailey.

"Hailey," Santana echoes, grinning toothily, and Rachel forces a smile and waves, because she's polite, but she's also kind of freezing all of a sudden.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, even though it's really not.

Hailey nods. "You too. Rach, is it?”

"Rachel," she corrects, and then they all stand in an awkward silence that Hailey breaks with a sneeze, and then Santana goes, “Te bendiga,” which is more than likely _bless you_ in Spanish or something. Hailey smiles sweetly with a giggle, and Santana smiles back with those _eyes_ of hers, and Rachel can’t take one more minute of this, pushing up onto her toes to lean into Santana and whisper, "It's getting really cold out here. Can we go home now?"

She aims the remark into Santana's ear but says it loud enough for Hailey to hear. Santana looks between them, shrugs her shoulders, and then says to Hailey, "We really should get going, but it was nice meeting you." Hailey hums in agreement, and then Santana adds, "Next time we'll complain about how fucking early the garbage trucks come around.”

"Looking forward to it," Hailey says, though she sounds a little disappointed as she looks between Rachel and Santana with this puzzled look, as if she's trying to solve a math problem or something.

Rachel doesn't know—or really even care—what this Hailey girl thinks; all she knows is that she's the one holding Santana's hand as they make their way out of the park, and she's the one who gets to go home with her.

\--

It starts off slow. At first she notices the small things. Deep dimples that's always been there but have never been paid proper attention. Long eyelashes that flutter more than the butterflies in her stomach. Soft hair that falls over Santana's shoulders and curls naturally after just being washed. Dark eyes that glisten in mischief whenever impure thoughts enter her keen mind.

Honestly, Rachel could go on all day. Maybe even forever.

And that’s kind of what’s been bothering her the most. It’s not that Santana doesn’t deserved to be liked, because she’s such a good person, but liked by _Rachel_? That’s not only confusing for her, but imagine what would happen if Santana ever found out? Rachel shutters at the thought and decides to just stopping thinking about it.

Maybe then the feelings will naturally go away all on their own.

Rounding the counter with a bowl of popcorn, Rachel spots Santana on the couch in front of a paused _Breaking Bad_ episode. Her arms are folded over her chest as she stares forward, stuck in some kind of trance.

Rachel plops down on the couch beside her. "You're thinking very hard about something.”

"Mhmm," Santana hums, nodding as she pulls the bowl of popcorn into her own lap.

"Let me guess. Coffee?”

Santana cracks a smile, throwing a piece of popcorn into her mouth with a crunch. "Nope. Guess again.”

"Coffee beans?"

"You're getting colder."

"Okay then. I give up," Rachel says, digging into the bowl of popcorn. Her breathing falters when their fingers touch, but she resists the urge to snatch her hand away.

Santana peeks up at Rachel and smiles softly. "ToMac."

Quirking an eyebrow, Rachel slowly retracts her hand. "What is a...ToMac?" she asks, casually popping a kernel into her mouth.

Shifting restlessly, Santana takes a handful of popcorn and stuffs it into her mouth. She chews slowly, quite obviously stalling, but eventually she swallows and there's nowhere left to hide.

Rachel nudges her in the shoulder. "So?"

"ToMac is this stupid rainbow cow I left at home," she explains, and then wipes her buttery hands on her sweatshirt with a frown, and Rachel tries not to grimace at the sight, because there are napkins _right there_ on the coffee table. "Brittany won him for me at the summer fair right before breaking my fucking heart.”

Huffing out a breath of air, Santana reaches for the napkins with this forlorn look on her face, and Rachel sits there, unsure of what to say or do. She could hug Santana, but it’d be super awkward at this angle, or she could pat Santana on the back, but Rachel has a feeling that’d form of comfort would be just as unnecessary.

Finally, Rachel resides on saying nothing and simply listens as Santana opens her mouth multiple times without an accompaniment of words. “It's just...I mean,” Santana struggles to say, rolling her eyes at herself as she wipes at her fingers. “I know I have to let go, but sometimes holding on is so much easier."

It's the first time Santana's brought up Brittany in over a month or so. Rachel didn't necessarily think her roommate was over her ex—because that would just be insane—but she at least thought those end of summer memories were slowly starting to hurt less the longer Santana’s been in New York, (which Rachel is just now starting to realize is a completely ridiculous thing to suspect). Santana was, after all, in love with Brittany for _years_ before they even started dating, so of course she's not yet over it.

Rachel supposes she should feel a little bit guilty she doesn't get that same empty feeling when thinking about Finn. Of course she loved him, but overtime that love slowly changed into something less intense while they were apart. It could be that they both just truly sucked at long distance relationships, or maybe they were never really meant to be in the first place.

"I know what you mean," Rachel admits, sitting cross-legged on the couch so that her feet are tucked underneath her. Santana gives her a look, but Rachel only raises an eyebrow, because she _does_ get it. Really.

Finn is the perfect example of how hard she was hanging on until neither of them could take it anymore. Their love basically bubbled up and popped all on its own. It was so bad Rachel barely even felt the pain of their breakup as much as she thinks she should have. Sad but true.

They actually understand each other for once, and it's a strange feeling. Understanding Santana Lopez had always sounded like it'd be some kind of nightmare, but now Rachel loves sharing a connection like this with her roommate. For the first time, Rachel feels like they're more than just house buddies; they're actually _friends_.

Smiling, Rachel reaches out for Santana's hand to comfort her, simultaneously forgetting how slick and sticky her roommate's hands are from the popcorn butter. But she doesn't let go, no matter how nasty Santana's moist fingers feel against her palm, especially when Santana squeezes her hand back in understanding with these deep brown eyes and this lopsided smile.

Rachel thinks she could definitely live off of that smile, and that's what continues to scare her every day.

\--

This is the third day in a row that Santana's running late for work. She's fumbling around her room, toothbrush sticking out the side of her mouth as she tugs on a belt. Rachel's never seen someone put on a belt and brush their teeth at the same time before. The sight is more entertaining than one would presume.

Rachel stretches out on the bed as she turns the page of a magazine she's reading. It's Santana's magazine, and Rachel’s not really sure if she should be offended by the numerous amount of half-naked women in this Victoria's Secret catalogue, or intrigued by their revealing yet tasteful undergarments.

"For how long do you work today?" Rachel asks, kicking her feet back against the headboard.

Santana squints as she thinks for a moment. "Only until seven."

" _Only_?" Pouting, Rachel flips to another page. "That's over eight hours." Her voice is kind of whiny, and she really didn't mean for it to come out like that. She clears her throat and puts the magazine in front of her face to hide her blush.

Chuckling, Santana turns to her full length mirror and ties her hair up into a messy bun. "Aw, Berry," she coos, poking out her bottom lip as she looks at Rachel through the mirror’s reflection. “Gonna miss me?”

"Of course," Rachel murmurs, leaning up on her elbow with a shrug. "I miss you whenever you're gone."

Santana catches her eye in the mirror and then smirks, and Rachel hopes to God that her roommate can't read minds. Sometimes it's a bit unnerving when Santana gets this all-knowing look on her face, as if she knows a whole lot more about what's going on in Rachel's head than she should.

"Ditto."

The word is quick and simple, but Santana looks so sincere when she says it that Rachel gets this crazy urge to tell Santana how she feels in over five languages (which is kind of weird considering Rachel only knows how to speak a total of one language in all, compared to Santana who can speak close to three—English, Spanish, and Lima Heights Adjacent—which, according to Santana, "Totally counts as a language. I'd like to see you try and speak it.")

Rachel smiles shyly, and then flips to another page. "Maybe I'll stop by at around six or something," she mentions offhandedly, eyes scanning over the page but not really seeing anything. Her mind is too focused elsewhere. "You know, so you don't have to walk back alone."

"Cool. Thanks," Santana mumbles, suddenly distracted as she bumbles around the room in search for her sneakers.

Rachel clears her throat to get Santana's attention and then juts her chin at the closet door. Santana snaps her fingers, mutters _of course_ , and then opens her closet. An avalanche of clothes and sneakers and high heels come rolling out, and Santana curses under her breath as she digs through the massive pile of dirty laundry for the shoes that match her muddy brown work uniform.

Eventually she finds the right pair and then tugs them on as she hops over to her bed, coming super close to tripping over one of the many books she's borrowed from Cole in the process. Once Santana's tied up her laces, she grabs a backpack from under her bed, tosses in her iPhone, a chain of keys, and the same book she just tripped over, and then salutes Rachel as she says, "I'm out. See you at six, babe."

She pulls aside the curtain and slips on through, and Rachel's heart flutters at the term of endearment as she rolls out of Santana's bed and pushes the curtain aside just in time to see the heavy metal door clunk shut.

\--

She watches the weather channel, because there's nothing else on. The weatherman, Lee Goldberg, says it's one of the warmest days of the holiday, reaching about 55 degrees, so Rachel decides to go out for a jog. She still hates running, but at least it's a good excuse to go out and get some fresh air.

Sawyer's waiting for her on their bench. He always is, whenever Rachel feels it necessary to come out and clear her mind, air out her jumbled thoughts. During these last few days, she's discovered a lot more about herself than she originally expected—or wanted, honestly. She has yet to determine whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. But either way, she needs to vent, and what better place to let it all out than right here in this secluded little park?

"Any New Years' resolutions?" Sawyer asks her, pulling down on his plaid cap.

Rachel thinks about this for a long moment. She could say something simple, like wanting to prove her dance instructor wrong, or not giving in under the pressure, or promising to go out for a run whenever she finds the time.

She could say her resolution is to make the most of this grand city, to explore every inch of the pavement and make it her own. But instead of all those nice, cookie cutter responses, what Rachel says is, "My resolution is to tell my roommate that I may kind of have feelings for her."

Sawyer doesn't even flinch at the pronoun. He doesn't seem surprised at all, actually. Shaking his head with a silly grin, he gives Rachel an appraising look, shrugs, and says, "YOLO."

Birds chirp in the distance, and Rachel tries not to laugh. "Sawyer, did you just quote Drake?"

Unashamed, Sawyer folds his wrinkled hands in his lap. "My grandchildren are addicted to this rap stuff," he explains, crinkling his bumpy nose. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?"

Ironically, it's the same motto Rachel's been using in regard to her feelings for Santana. If she can't rid them away, she might as well give in and face her emotions head on.

Rachel sighs in agreement. "Sawyer, you couldn't be more right."

\--

She doesn't get to Cobblestones until around 6:27, about a half hour after she promised she'd arrive, and Santana looks so relieved to see her that Rachel doesn't know whether to smile or cry.

For now, though, she smiles widely and heads over to the counter, orders a cup of peppermint tea, and rolls her eyes when Santana says she's getting predictable.

But later on, in her room, Rachel does cry, yet she can't decipher whether they're sad tears or happy tears.

\--

Rachel wakes up, looks at her calendar, and grumbles when she sees it's the 29th of December. Only four more days until she has to go back to practicing her dance routines. Only four more days until she only gets to see bits and pieces of Santana. Only four more days until Kurt comes home and ruins the warped sense of reality they've created in his absence.

She rolls out of bed and notices a chill in the air as soon as she pushes aside her curtain. The window to the fire escape is open, and Rachel heads over to the couch to grab a throw blanket before stepping out into the frosty morning.

Leaning over the railing, Santana holds a cigarette up to her lips and puffs out a cloud of smoke. It's not one of Rachel's favorite things about her roommate, but it's part of her, which Rachel has ultimately learned to deal with, because if she doesn't, Santana gets all grumpy, and nobody likes a grumpy Santana.

It's snowing; slow, soft flurries that look like powder sprinkled across Santana's dark hair. Rachel throws the blanket over her own shoulders as she steps up beside her roommate.

Santana's wearing her McKinley Cheerios sweatshirt, which Rachel eyes warily. Sometimes it's still strange to think of Santana as the temporary head cheerleader who used to bark out orders, summon slushie facials, and rip through people's hopes and dreams with her vicious, vicious words as if they were only a frail piece of paper.

As far as Rachel's concerned, _that_ Santana doesn't even exist anymore. She might've never had. That Santana was only mean because of all the feelings she was suppressing. She was only cruel because she was confused about her sexuality and who she was outside of being a popular Cheerio, outside of being one of Sue Sylvester's minions. Santana was only angry because she was afraid of what would happen once she came out of the closet and told everyone she's gay, that she's attracted to girls.

Rachel cringes at the questions that were probably bombarding Santana's mind night after night as she tried to find sleep. _Would anyone outside of glee like me anymore, want to be seen with me? What will my family think? Will they kick me out? Would the girls on the cheer squad make a huge uproar and refuse to change in the same locker room as me?_

There were so many what ifs and maybes, and Rachel still can't seem to grasp how Santana so easily wears that Cheerios sweatshirt and not be reminded of all the pain and fear she experienced when donning it in the past.

A wry smile creeps across Santana cheeks when their eyes lock and she catches Rachel looking at her sweatshirt. "You know, it's weird," she says, flicking some ash off the tail end of her cigarette. She sighs and then brings the stick back up to her lips for a drag. "Back in high school, I was the center of attention, you know. I had so many unnecessary friends who didn't even like me, and now...now I have no one. Talk about karma, huh?"

Rachel leans her head on Santana's shoulder, and then holds her breath at the smell of stale and pungent smoke in the air. "That's not true," she says, gazing up at Santana, selfishly hoping her roommate can sense everything she's feeling with just one look. She doesn't, of course, but it was worth a try. "You have Cole, and Angela and Daniel, and Henry and Kurt," _and me_ , she decides not to add, because that should be a given by now.

Santana crinkles her nose. "Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum are _your_ friends, Rach. And Henry is Kurt's boyfriend. If they break up, I'm shit outta luck."

Wow. That was very...pessimistic, and it almost puts a damper on Rachel’s mood, but then she remembers all of the people who’ve given up on Santana in the past, and Rachel’s never going to be one of those people.

Santana always tries to act like it doesn't matter, like it doesn't _hurt_ , but Rachel thinks she’s known Santana long enough by now to be able to tell when something big is on her mind. She can see it in the way Santana purses her lips after every exhale; how her shoulders tense underneath Rachel's head as she breathes out a heavy sigh into the frosty air with a puff of condensation.

Rachel nibbles on her bottom lip and pulls the wool afghan tighter around her shoulders. "What about Cole? Isn't _she_ your friend?" And okay, maybe there's a little bitterness in that question, but Rachel thinks it's warranted, somehow.

Scoffing, Santana shakes her head as she burns out her cigarette against the icy cold railing. "Cole's a little too...out of it for me," she settles on, clenching her jaw. "High isn't even a temporary condition when it comes to Cole; it's a personality trait." She smiles ruefully, and then licks her upper lip, which Rachel tries her hardest not to stare at. "I tried the weed thing and it tasted like shit. Plus, she's always zoned and talking about this philosophical shit that I can never understand. We're not even friends with benefits; we're just plain ol’ fuck buddies."

Rachel grimaces at the term. It still makes her a little sick to her stomach. "Well, you have Kurt and I," she adds, trying to help the best she can.

But Santana only frowns and shakes her head again. "I doubt Kurt would give me a second look if we weren't roommates."

"Then," she stalls, searching for something, _anything_ to say that will convince Santana she's not alone here. They've been hanging out during this _entire_ break, and Rachel hasn't left Santana's side not once. Angela's texted a few times to see if she wants to hang out at Call Backs, and Daniel's called to invite her along on some open dance auditions, but Rachel's turned them both down because she didn't want to leave Santana out.

She knows how sensitive the girl is about that kind of stuff—it's one of the things Rachel likes most about her; her compassion and sensitivity—so with a tired sigh, she steps away from Santana and gives her a pointed look.

"What?"

"You have _me_ , Santana," she says, huffily.

"Same goes for you."

"The same does _not_ go for me, Santana, and I honestly find it insulting that you’d so easily dismiss the idea of my being your friend,” Rachel says, with a mixture of anger and disbelief in her fiery eyes. She clutches onto her blanket and takes a deep breath to regain some composure. “I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kind of like my best friend right now."

God, Santana can be so clueless sometimes. It makes Rachel crazy and totally moonstruck all at the same time. How the most infuriating traits about Santana has Rachel falling deeper and deeper for her every single day is truly astounding. Astounding and stupid.

Rachel blinks up at Santana, who's chewing on her bottom lip like a petulant child. "Kurt's hardly ever around. Angela and Daniel are like Thing One and Thing Two,” she says, lowering her eyes to the alleyway beneath them. “I too am all alone here, so we might as well be alone together."

It's comes out sounding like a question, a simple suggestion, but the words make Santana smile nonetheless. "BFFs, huh?" she mumbles, testing out the words on her tongue. After a moment of consideration, a teasing grin creeps across Santana's lips. "Have you ever even had a _girl_ best friend before?"

"No," Rachel says, shaking her head with the quirk of her lip. She should probably be embarrassed by this confession, but it's kind of hard to feel that way with Santana nowadays. Rachel's come to trust her, and although this revelation is a little unnerving, she can't help but smile as she says, "But you can be my first."

Rolling her eyes, Santana throws an arm around Rachel's shoulders. It's an awkward sideways hug, especially with Santana resting her chin on Rachel's clavicle, but it's the best hug she's received in a while. (Also, the hug is from Santana, so that doesn't hurt much either.)  

"I'd love to be your first girl," Santana whispers into her neck, and Rachel flinches at the huskiness in Santana's voice, shivering from head to toe at the feeling of Santana's hot breath against her skin.

In the past, Rachel would've shoved Santana away after such a purposefully suggestive comment like that, but now that Santana's touch causes warmth to spread from head to toe despite the frigid temperature, the comments aren't really all that unwanted anymore, so she stays cuddled up against her roommate’s side, hands resting just above Santana's waistline.

"Your mind is a gutter full of filth and pornographic images," she deadpans, hiding her smirk into Santana's hair.

Santana simply shrugs. "A healthy sex drive is nothing to be ashamed of," she says, tipping the side of her head against Rachel's. "And speaking of sex, I feel famished. I'll make the vegan waffles if you bake those orgasmic croissants. Deal?"

It’s come to the point where she has no other choice but to simply agree whenever it comes to her roommate. Scary, she knows, but no less true. Burying her nose into Santana’s hair, Rachel wraps her arms around Santana's waist and squeezes tight.

"Deal," she says.

\--

Later that day, she hears Santana on the phone with her parents; it sounds like they're arguing over finances and her future. From where she's standing in the kitchen, she hears the phrases _back to school_ and _waste of time_ and _college fund_ , and then there's silence.

Three minutes later, Santana appears in front of her curtain with a hand on her forehead.

Concerned, Rachel rounds the counter slowly. "Hey, what happened?"

"Nothing," Santana sighs, walking into the kitchen to grab a bottled water from out the refrigerator.

"Are you sure?" Rachel frowns. "If you want to talk about it, we can—"

"Rachel," Santana says, anxiously twisting the cap of her water bottle on and off. Breathing out a sigh, brown eyes dart to the analog clock hanging on the wall above the stove. She curses under her breath. "Shit. I gotta get to work before my boss threatens to fire me again."

Rachel watches her leave, and then wonders what the weather's like today.

\--

She goes for another run. The cool air of December helps clear her foggy head. She gets to the park and it's mostly empty, because no normal parent would take their child to the park in such frigid temperatures. It's colder than it was the other day, but bearable, at least.

Sawyer feeds the pigeons, and Rachel talks about Santana; how her roommate sells herself short; how Santana's pain is _her_ pain sometimes; how she could hardly ever connect with Finn the way she's connected with Santana; how it's killing her inside that Angela's been right all along, even before Rachel realized it herself.

Then, suddenly, she wonders, "Am I gay? If I like Santana, does that make me gay? Or bisexual, maybe?" When Sawyer simply shrugs his shoulders, Rachel nods in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. That's beside the point."

Chuckling under his breath, Sawyer hands over a bag of bird seeds. "Love is love is love."

Rachel blushes and tries to smile, but it feels funny, like she's forcing it or something. Maybe she is. "Oh, I'm not in love with her," she tells him, throwing a handful of seeds out onto the ground. "It's just a silly infatuation."

"The way you're talking about this girl as if she's something special sure doesn't _sound_ silly," Sawyer points out, buttoning the side of his leather gloves.

"Well, yes, she _is_ special, but..." But what? She's run out of excuses, and that scares her more than her conflicted emotions. "I don't love her like that. She's my friend. She's Santana. She's rude and judgmental and...and pretty and funny and I think I'm going crazy."

Sawyer stretches back on the bench with a sigh. "When I was a boy, my granny used to say that there's a very fine line between insanity and love."

"I'm not in love, Sawyer," Rachel repeats adamantly. "She's my roommate, my _friend_."

"There is a very fine line between friendship and love too," he singsongs, much to Rachel's chagrin, because for the billionth time, she only loves Santana as a friend. Anything else she may feel is simply a crush. A dumb, harmless crush.

As soon as Santana says or does something stupid—because, let's face it, she almost always says or does something stupid sooner or later—Rachel will get over it and wonder why she ever wasted time thinking Santana could mean more to her than just a friend.

\--

It's New Year’s Eve, and Rachel has to go back to NYADA in three days—before the semester even starts again—to begin pre-semester rehearsals. She's had way too much time off, and if she doesn't start brushing up on her skills soon, she definitely won't be ready for the next semester of dance, or the new ways of torture Miss July has cooked up for the next four months.

But for now, Rachel's not going to think about school, or her evil dance instructor, or the next semester of NYADA. Tonight, Rachel is going to party with her friends, drink some champagne, wear stupid 2014 glasses, and not think about kissing Santana at midnight. It's the perfect plan for a perfect evening.

Santana comes home from Cobblestones, smelling like coffee beans as usual, at around 8pm. She looks exhausted from working such long hours, but she's adamant about not being that loser who stays home on her first New Years in the city, so they hurry up to shower off the grime of the city and then get dressed.

Angela is throwing a New Year's Eve bash in downtown Brooklyn; it's supposed to be one of her wildest parties, and Rachel's kind of excited and kind of scared about that fact. But at least she'll have Santana with her just in case anything crazy or unexpected goes down. You really never know what to expect when attending an Angela Moretti party.

In the bathroom, Rachel's having some trouble with her makeup—the damn eyeliner pencil keeps slanting sideways across her eye, which results in a very unappealing look—so she creeps into Santana's curtain to ask for a hand.

Santana’s one of the best makeup artists she knows, and the way she effortlessly applies eye makeup is like some kind of magic or something, but when Rachel pulls Santana’s curtain aside, she gapes at the sight of her roommate sprawled across the bed, face pressed sideways against her pillow as she snores softly.

Yawning, Santana cracks an eye open when Rachel sinks down next to her. Brown eyes open blearily at first, but then Santana jumps up, eyes wide, muttering, “Holy shit,” under her breath over and over again as she continues to get dressed.

Amused, Rachel watches her for a moment, eyes darting back and forth as Santana rushes to finish getting ready, but it’s almost like watching an unfueled truck slowly running out of gas, and Rachel can’t help but take pity on her, because she knows Santana's tired and not really up for hanging out all night long.

Santana smiles gratefully when Rachel tells her this, but she still looks guilty, insisting on calling Daniel to pick her up so Rachel can go have fun without a buzzkill like herself, but Rachel's having none of that. It's not like she'd have any fun without Santana with her anyway, and it kind of ends up working out in her favor.

This way, Santana won't disappear with any random women tonight and Rachel can have Santana all to herself. It may sound possessive and selfish, sure, but Rachel doesn't really care at the moment, not when Santana's looking at her all sleepily and whatnot.

They put on their lounge clothes, pour some wine, and put on _Dick Clark's New Year’s Rockin’ Eve_. While they watch all of the freezing people in the audience, Santana looks at Rachel and Rachel looks back, and they then promise each other to never stand in the cold at Times Square ever, no matter how Kurt tries to persuade them.

Santana dozes off a few times throughout the evening, but Rachel makes sure to wake her up about fifteen minutes before countdown so she won't miss the ball drop. As they watch the performances and listen to Ryan Seacrest babble on about something no one really cares about, they both reminisce about what they'd be doing if it was a year prior.

"Can you believe we were both in moderately healthy and stable relationships last year?" Rachel asks, disbelievingly.

Shaking her head, Santana takes a sip from her plastic cup of wine. "And look at us now. Like, what the fuck even happened?"

Rachel shrugs. "Our significant others broke up with us."

"Thanks for the reminder, Rach."

"Well, isn't that the point of reminiscing?"

"Shut up," Santana snorts and playfully shoves Rachel over, almost causing her to spill her cup of wine. When Rachel shoves her back, Santana lets out a sigh and goes, "I can't believe we don't have anyone to kiss when the clock strikes twelve. We're such losers."

Rolling her eyes, Rachel giggles and asks, "Do you really believe that?"

"Um, yeah," Santana says, like it's obvious. "Tonight, we define loserdom. I mean, c'mon, these lips are way too delicious to be left unkissed. Especially on fucking New Year's Eve."

Rachel doesn’t _not_ agree, but she chooses not to comment all the same, and it seems she doesn't really have to, because suddenly countdown starts, and they're both silent, eyes glued to the screen as the ball starts to drop.

Santana continually sips her wine, nonchalant, but Rachel feels like she's about combust with the choice of whether or not to just go for it, but then the countdown reaches one and the people in the crowds on TV start kissing, and it’s over. Just like that.

Clutching onto her blanket, Rachel shifts restlessly. "Well, I guess that's it. Happy New Year, Santana."

"Happy New Year, Rach," Santana says with a smile, and then they bump their clunky, plastic cups together.

As Santana tilts her cup back for a sip, Rachel thinks about kissing her. She thinks about scooting over on the couch and closing the small distance between them. She thinks about what would happen if Santana actually kissed her back; how far it would go should it go anywhere at all.

She thinks about it for all of five seconds as Santana's eyes penetrate hers with this incredibly tipsy smirk, but Rachel ultimately doesn't do what her heart has been nagging her to do for the last week and a half.

She can already hear Sawyer ripping her out for being such a coward.

\--

Later, when it's barely past three in the morning, Rachel rolls over onto her stomach and groans in frustration. She's having one of those nights where she can't even tell whether she's slept or not, irrevocably stuck in this limbo state of mind between asleep and awake. Tossing and turning to get comfortable, Rachel stuffs her face into her pillow and groans again.

This is some kind of horrible torture.

Her mind won't rest. Every time she closes her eyes, Santana appears right there behind her eyelids. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot stop thinking about the other girl; her cheeky smile (the one Santana uses whenever she knows something no one else knows), her dark brown eyes (how they glisten in mischief whenever she's up to no good).

Goodness. Rachel's got it bad. So bad she can't even sleep.

The next time she looks at the time on her phone, it is 3:12 am. She can't take this anymore and climbs out of bed, blinded by darkness as she makes her way through the curtain and out into the living area.

When she flicks on the light in the kitchen, she lets out a startled breath. "Santana," she says, staring at her roommate in confusion as Santana holds a jar of peanut butter at the kitchen counter. "What..." She rubs at her raw eyes and blinks. "What are you doing?"

"You know, eating peanut butter in the dark. You know." Santana shrugs as she licks the spoon, and Rachel swears this right here is the reason she's fallen so hard in the first place. "What are _you_ doing?"

Rachel ventures into the kitchen and sits down on the stool beside Santana. "I couldn't sleep."

"Me neither." With a drowsy smile, Santana digs her spoon back into the jar of peanut butter. "Must've slept too much earlier."

Even in the dim lighting, Rachel notices there's a slight flush to her roommate's usually tan complexion. "Are you...are you okay, Santana?"

"Tipsy, maybe," she mumbles, gesturing to the empty wine bottle across the counter. "Drunk, definitely."

Rachel stares at the wine bottle for a moment, perplexed. "You drank the rest of the bottle all on your own."

Smirking, Santana shrugs helplessly. "Happy New Year."

Shaking her head, Rachel curls a strand of hair behind her ear with a small smile and watches from under her eyelashes as Santana continues to scoop dollops of peanut butter into her mouth. "Kurt's homicidal tendencies will be definitely exposed if that's not replaced by the time he arrives home."

"Hummel can deal." Santana waves her off with the peanut butter slathered spoon. Some bits fall to the kitchen counter, but Santana doesn't seem too concerned. "Early morning peanut butter is a requirement for insomniacs, and if Kurt can't understand that, it's his ish–ish–issue," she hiccups with a giggle, and Rachel can’t help but smile. "C'mon, indulge with me."

Rachel doesn't really even like peanut butter all that much, but she takes the offered spoon and digs in anyway. Any chance to lick the same spoon Santana's had her mouth on is a welcome opportunity. Weird, sure, but it’s the truth.

She can feel Santana looking at her from out the corner of her eye, but Rachel keeps her head down as they pass the spoon and jar back and forth. Eventually, Santana peeks up and says, "You look sad."

Rachel huffs out a laugh. "Not sad. Just thoughtful."

Santana nods as if she understands, but Rachel knows her roommate has _no_ idea what's going on in her head right now. If Santana were to find out about Rachel's very uncertain feelings, everything between them would slowly deteriorate and then burn to the ground. She's sure of it. What's worse than falling for your own roommate? Nothing. What's worse than having your roommate fall for you? Nothing.

Santana lifts her eyes to meet Rachel's and then taps her spoon against the peanut butter jar. "What are you thinking about?" _You_ is the unspoken word, but Rachel forces herself not to say it. A confession would ruin everything. She likes being honest, sure, but not to the point of total and utter destruction.

"Mostly school," she fibs, dragging her eyes away from the sight of Santana licking the silver spoon clean of all remnants of peanut butter. "I'm still trying to work out how I'm going to survive the rest of this school year with Miss July breathing down my neck."

Santana smiles cheekily (Rachel's favorite smile). "Well, if anyone can show up that bitch, it's you, Rach."

It's when Santana says stuff like this—with all smiles and glistening eyes and meaningful tones—that Rachel can't help but swoon. "You really think so?" she asks softly.

"Um. Duh," Santana says, like it's the most obvious thing. Her brown eyes practically seep into Rachel's soul, and then she grins all lopsided and sweet (Rachel's second favorite smile). "You've survived Coach Sylvester, Vocal Adrenaline, Mr. Schue's crazy ex-wife, me and Tubbers, and the entire McKinley football team," she says, and then shrugs a shoulder. "Rach, c'mon, I think you can take on some scrawny ass dance teacher."

Rachel wouldn't exactly refer to Miss July as _scrawny_ considering the rock hard abs on that woman, but Santana's words do manage to make her feel a little bit better about everything nonetheless. "Thanks, Santana," she says in a whisper, just loud enough for her to hear.

In this soft voice that never fails to send shivers up Rachel's spine, Santana asks, "What for?"

Looking at her roommate, Rachel's nothing but honest when she says, "For being here."

It's obvious Santana's not used to these kinds of talks—this kind of honesty—by the way she bows her head and looks up at Rachel with a bashful smile. Their eyes stay glued, but then Santana gets this look on her face as she scrunches up her nose, and Rachel blushes when Santana's eyes squint in curiosity.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You, um..." Santana murmurs, eyeing the corner of Rachel's mouth with a smirk, "...have a little something."

"What?" Rachel frowns, crossing her eyes as she tries to look at her own face.

Santana taps at the corner of her own lip with a tiny smile. "You've got some peanut butter on the side of your mouth."

"Oh." Cheeks flushing, Rachel rolls her eyes at herself, and then uses her finger to wipe the peanut butter away. "All gone?"

Laughing, Santana shakes her head. "Not...exactly," she murmurs, moving in slowly, and Rachel's heart does this weird thing in her chest where it stops for a second. (She hopes it doesn't cause too much of a problem for her health, because that _thing_ has been happening a lot lately.)

Santana's eyes are pinned to hers, obviously waiting for some kind of consent, but Rachel doesn't know what to say. Her throat has suddenly gone dry, and when she opens her mouth to speak, nothing comes out.

"Here, let me." Santana grabs a napkin from off the counter and then quirks her lips into a wry smile (Rachel's third favorite smile). "Just hold still."

Still? She's as still as physically possible. Not only has her exterior halted, but all of her internal organs have given pause. She watches as Santana leans into her, inching closer and closer, and Rachel closes her eyes and tries to focus on breathing.

Her breath hitches when a soft napkin wipes against the corner of her mouth, and she opens her eyes to find Santana looking at her with this teasing gleam in her eyes as she continues to dab the napkin against the edge of Rachel's lips.

After another moment, Santana pulls her hand away, and Rachel's sad smile works as a mask to shield the crushed hope in her eyes. Santana smiles back, eyes still focused on Rachel's mouth. Those eyes stare for a good five seconds, and Rachel counts them out in her head, counts out the number of times her heart violently slams against her chest.

It's Santana—her friend, her roommate, her crush—who's making her feel this way, and Rachel's not sure if that's still a bad thing or a good thing, because suddenly there's a frown donning those pouty lips of Santana's as she says, "Oh, wait. I think I missed a spot.

Rachel always thought she'd be prepared for this moment—she always thought she'd be ready for something like _this_ —but the fact that she doesn't even see it coming is actually more shocking than the kiss itself.

Sighing through her nose, Rachel can't really tell if she's breathing or not, but then Santana's hand is palming the back of her neck, fingers curling through loose strands of brown hair, and then Santana's lips are on hers, and she tastes like peanut butter and red wine and _discovery_.

It's a stifling kiss; a long, wet kiss, but Rachel doesn't move, just closes her eyes and holds still against the feeling of Santana's pillowy lips moving against hers. They're so _soft_ —softer than Rachel ever imagined—and she remains absolutely still for a good three seconds before giving in and kissing back.

Her hands don’t know what to do, hovering awkwardly at Santana’s side as they continue to kiss, or make out, or whatever it is they’re doing, and Rachel already knows she’ll definitely regret not touching Santana come morning.

Santana deepens the kiss, angling her head sideways, and Rachel sinks into it. It’s hard to say whether or not she imagines it Santana moaning into her mouth when she swipes her tongue against Rachel’s, but then—then it's over, and Rachel slowly opens her eyes as Santana pulls away and rests their foreheads together.

Heart beating like a jackhammer, Rachel can only let out a short exhale as Santana smirks devilishly and then wipes her thumb across Rachel's bottom lip. She promised herself that she’d stop looking so deeply into Santana’s eyes, though it’s not like she’s really given much of a choice with her roommate sitting so close to her.

She tries to follow Santana’s thumb with a kiss, but Santana only smirks amorously with a shake of her head, and God, how couldn’t she have seen this coming? It's been building up to this ever since Rachel first acknowledged her feelings for Santana, and, honestly, it can only go downhill from here.

Suddenly serious, Santana’s eyes trail down Rachel’s body, lips parted breathlessly. Her nostrils flare, and Rachel wonders if this is Santana turned on. She’s been wondering about it a lot lately, and with this close proximity, the thoughts have now become even harder to ignore.

Dazed, Rachel can only stare, watching carefully as Santana sways forward and off of her stool. Stupidly, she closes her eyes, expecting some sort of good night kiss from Santana, but nothing. Nothing at all.

Mumbling something under her breath, Santana rubs at her tired eyes and then stumbles behind her curtain without looking back, and Rachel's jaw kind of just hangs there for a moment—a very _long_ moment—as she tries to piece together what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for any questions you might have, just ask, either here or on my tumblr ;)

**Author's Note:**

> The song Rachel sung at the Winter Showcase; Celine Dion's "I Surrender"


End file.
